Pickup Truck
by MaryElizabeth23
Summary: A Teambella23 Fic: Freckled, sunburned, and scraped, our lives are lived barefoot and sandy, rolling under the baking sun and surfing the salty water—young, wild, and brave. Volkswagens, bonfires, and "You call that a pickup truck?" We were born into this, but we won't be like them. We're invincible. We're seventeen. We're smarter than that. What's the worst that can happen?
1. Intro

**Introduction**

**Bella**

One minute I'm cheering, high-fiving my girl because I just won Flip Cup, and the next, Smirks is smirking, winking—because that's what Smirks does—but he's drunk, so he's overdoing it. The kid looks like he's having a small stroke, but I'm drunk, too, so I think it's hot.

I wave.

_Yeah, Smirks is hot. _

"Edward is totally looking at you," James whispers. She elbows me in the side, like, _hey hey hey._

Instead of elbowing her back, I playfully-too-hard push her. Like all good teenagers on a Saturday night, she's white-girl wasted, so she falls on her ass. I consider helping her up, but I'm laughing too hard.

So is everybody else.

Amid the distraction of the fallen beauty, Smirks pulls me by my elbow through the kitchen away from the party. His boy, Felix, is drinking water straight from the faucet, shit-faced, too. Edward unlocks and opens the sliding glass door, and Felix pulls away from the water.

"Where are you guys going?" he asks. He wipes his wet lips dry with the back of his hand.

I stop to answer, but Edward pulls me outside.

His backyard is the shoreline, and my hunk-of-junk is parked on the sand. Cracklin' wood has gone white, seeping smoke. We've left a mess, but this night has been too fast to care. Beer cans, plastic cups, overturned chairs, and wet towels are laid out everywhere, cluttering the beach.

Then there's the moon, and the stars, and the waves … _I'm so drunk._

I lift the hood to my hoodie over my head, tighten the strings tight, and look over at Edward, smiling.

"Nothing but teeth," he says.

I notice he's taken his shirt off. "Nothing but chest!" I laugh. Then I look down at myself: sweater, swimsuit bottoms, flip flops. "Wait," I say. "Are we going swimming?"

He shrugs.

I pull my hoodie off over my head and let it drop to the sand. Only too little too late, I notice that with my sweater went most of my top. My entire left breast is exposed.

I look over at Smirks with wide eyes.

He kisses me.

Somehow we end up in the front seat of my vehicle—foggy windows, elbows and knees, seat belt lodged in my back—the whole stereotypical deal. Thank God for bench seats.

He's smirking again, and it's so pretty, so I show him both of my boobs. He's a boy, so he loves them. We're laughing, and we're touching, and we're so fucking drunk that nothing else matters, not even the consequences.

And it's all fun and games until Edward Cullen unties my bikini bottoms.

He's between my knees, up on his. The thin material of his board shorts do nothing to hide how bad he wants me. We're not laughing anymore, but we breathe hard. My bare chest rises and falls, and my intoxicated head swims.

This is Edward.

_Edward Cullen. _

Smirks.

When one side of my purple bottoms is loose, he moves to the other. His dark eyes look black in the matted-by-foggy-glass moonlight. His cheeks are warm and flushed, and his stomach muscles are tense. I watch his fingers as they pull double knots apart, and I love the way his arms flex when he leans over me.

"Is this okay?" he asks right over my ear.

His breath smells like Corona.

His hand is between us, but he's not touching me. He's loosening his shorts. Edward's knuckles brush my clit and I cry out.

"Yeah?" he asks, amused.

I nod rapidly. "Yes," I answer, practically humping his hand.

It's quick after that. We're back to kissing and touching and rolling and rocking. I get my knee stuck under the steering wheel, so he has to help me get free. He bumps his head on the roof, so I laugh. His shorts get stuck at his ankles, so I have to kind of maneuver myself to help him out. Once we're both entirely naked, we kind of switch positions. He sits straight, and I straddle his legs.

Kissing, kissing, and kissing.

Moaning, moaning, and moaning.

Then: "The gearshift is in my back."

And: "My ass is stuck to the leather."

Then: "Do we need a condom?"

I nod, of course.

"Glove compartment," I say.

He reaches forward with me on his lap. My arm accidently honks the horn.

We laugh.

When Edward has the condom, he can't get the little package open. He drops it—twice.

"Hurry up!" I whine.

He uses his teeth.

It opens.

It glows in the dark, and when it's on him, we laugh again.

When I'm on him, we melt.

Yeah, because when you're seventeen years old and getting fucked in your pickup truck, what can possibly go wrong?


	2. Sandy Bread

**I do not own Twilight. **

**Welcome. Welcome. Welcome. **

**It's been a really long time since I've written anything by myself, so let's see if I can still do this. **

**Thank you for the constant support, and for the tweets, DMs, PMs, and emails asking for me to write. If you've noticed the name change, I am formerly TeamBella, but I've decided to just be myself … so this is me. **

**The reaction to the Intro alone has blown me away! **

**Vampshavelaws is my beta, and Gianasspanda is my pre-reader. So excited and honored to be working with both. **

**Huge thanks to PTB, who led me to my permanent betas. Catherine and Jenny, you're awesome. **

**.**

**.**

**.**

**Chapter One**

**Bella**

_Six weeks later_

I hate the sand.

I love the water. I love the sun. I love the boys on the boards.

I do not love sand.

The only thing worse than sand in my sheets is sand on the hardwood floors; and the only thing worse than sand on the hardwood floors is sand on the bottom of the shower. The only thing worse than sand on the bottom of the shower is sand in the loaf of bread; and the only thing worse than sand in the bread is sand in my mouth.

It happens.

I tried to talk Charlie into moving closer to Forks and away from the water's edge, but he never listens. He's either too high, or he's too busy at _Charlie's_, his surf and ride shop. When he does pay attention to my rants, his reaction is normally like, "Bella, Forks is too dangerous," or "Bella, just blow on the bread. The sand comes right out."

Which is ridiculous. No amount of blowing will ever get all of the sand out of each crevice in the bread. I've tried. And while Forks may have the highest crime rate in the state of Washington, it's hardly dangerous. Remington, my on-again, off-again ex, lives there and he's fine.

It would be comfortable in La Push if there weren't so much damn sand, or if my dad would tie the bread up after he made his sandwich. I mean, I don't know what my deal has been the last couple of weeks, but I've been kind of edgy … and there seems to be fucking sand everywhere.

Perhaps has something to do with the boy who lives three houses down.

"Step away from the broom," my dad says as he walks into the kitchen through the back door. He's in his normal attire of beach bum: Birkenstocks, cut-off Levi's, unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt, with a pipe between his lips.

He isn't foolin' anyone. The entire town knows it isn't tobacco he's smoking.

He's too tanned, and his beard is twelve inches too long. His hair, more frizzy than curly and more salt than pepper, is thinning at the base of his head, and is entirely unbrushed on the sides where it still lingers well over his ears.

Charlie Swan, the male behind my existence, has the reputation of being stuck in the 60s. He grew up here. First Beach was—and still is—his stomping grounds. When he was younger, he surfed these waters, and if he wasn't catching waves, he was pushing his Zephyr down sidewalks and through parking lots. Always moving, always rollin', always ridin'. La Push isn't exactly Dog Town and he's not a Z-Boy, but nobody told Dad that. He and his crew treated it as such.

He still does. He hasn't changed at all.

I blow my dark blonde bangs out of my face and smile. It's fake. I'm boiling. There's fucking sand stuck to the bottom of my feet and no matter how much I sweep, there's always more. Our little home on the water isn't exactly well kept. It's old and ocean-beaten, but it's ours. I like to keep it clean, but the sand makes it impossible.

"Take off your shoes before you walk through the kitchen, Dad!" I stomp my foot. My bangs fall back in my eyes.

Dad holds his hands up in surrender. If there's one thing Charlie has learned about me in the seventeen years of my life, it's that when I stomp, I'm not messing around. He said my mom used to do the same thing. Except she used to throw things, too. According to my dad, my mother was so passionate and overdramatic that she used to turn the whole house upside down when they would fight. She would cry loud enough for the entire shoreline to hear. She would pull her own hair and kick and scream and demand the attention of the world.

He remembers it as being romantic, but Esme Cullen, Edward's mom, tells me it was scary. Her exact words were, "Your mother was batshit crazy, and it was scary."

There are still a few pictures of her around the house, so I have daily reminders of what she looked like. I resemble the departed more than I do Charlie, and sometimes I think I might remember her when certain smells or a story about her call on buried memories, but nothing is ever concrete.

Charlie misses her, and from what I can tell, so does everyone else. I find it hard to grieve something I never had, though. I don't mind living in her memory, and it doesn't bother me when people tell me how much I remind them of Renee. I even like hearing tales about my ma's theatrical craziness. But for me, she's nothing more than a myth.

Considering my father has been raising me alone since I was three, he's done well. I still have all of my fingers and toes, the house has never burned down, and I know how to use a broom. The shop brings in enough money to put food on the table, and the electricity has never been turned off.

I mean, I am the daughter of the town's pothead, but everyone is really supportive. Between Esme and James' mom, Riley, I've never lacked motherly advice.

"I'm just going to make a sandwich." Dad laughs, lifting his foot to take another step.

"Out!" I shriek.

I'm more like Mom than I care to believe.

With a smile on his lips and crumbs from his last sandwich still in his beard, Charlie turns around and kicks his shoes out the door he left open. It all proves to be pointless, though. He has sand stuck to his skin up to his knees.

I drop the broom.

I stomp again.

He carefully walks around me and opens the fridge, gathering everything he needs for turkey and avocado on rye.

"What's your problem?" he asks, dumping condiments on the counter. He laughs. "Did you start your period?"

I lift my foot to stomp, and I open to my mouth to speak, but then—

_Did I?_

.

.

.

I'm looking at my calendar, using my fingers to count the weeks.

_One, two, three, four, five—no fucking way. _

I pull it from the wall, and the thumbtack holding the calendar up falls to my feet. Without looking up, I absentmindedly walk over to my bed. I sit and stare, and count, and count again. I flip between this month and the last just to make sure I didn't miss anything. I flip back two months and know I had my period on time in April. It's always on schedule.

_How could I not notice? _

I drop the calendar and think.

_Did I have it and forget? _

_I remember spotting. _

_I definitely spotted because I put a pad on, but that was it. _

_No bloating. No cramps. _

_Wait. I had PMS. _

I shake my head.

_I always have PMS. _

I look up. My closet doors are two large mirrors that reflect everything in my room. My walls are painted yellow, and I have posters and pictures of my friends covering almost all of the available space. In the center of my room is my four-post bed, which has clear Christmas lights wrapped around each pole. The mattress is naked—I had sand in my sheets. In the far corner of my room is a stand-up lamp that I treat more like a coat rack than an actual source of light. All of my shoes are shoved up against my dresser from when I was trying to sweep up all the sand from the age-buffed hardwood floors earlier. Through the mirror, I can see that I have a sweater and bikini bottoms and tops hidden under my bed.

In the midst of all that—right in the middle—ashen and on the verge of a freak out, is me. My hair is pulled up in a messy bun right on top of my head. Freckles, which will lighten up in the winter, are so noticeable and scattered across my nose and cheeks thanks to the summer sun. I'm wearing a turquoise bikini under gray sweat shorts and a white tank top. My feet are bare and my eyes are blue, and I'm so fucking dead.

I stand up and step right in front of my mirror, but I'm afraid to look. I'm afraid to lift my tank, because what if—

My cell phone rings.

I answer it without looking, knowing it's either James or Remington, but I'm really hoping it's James.

"Hello," I answer, keeping my eyes on the mirror.

"Wanna skate?"

It's Smirks.

I hang up.

He calls back.

"What?" I answer.

"Is there a problem?" he asks carefully.

I hang up again.

Turning away from the looking glass, I press James' number on speed dial and wait for her to answer while I pace my room, not giving a shit about the sand that's still under my feet.

Fuck the sand, I might be—

She answers after the third ring. "What's up, Sail?"

"Where are you?" I ask. I fall to my bottom against my dresser.

"With Edward and Felix. He said he just tried to call you. Come out. We're ridin'."

James and I were born best girls. Her dad Derek Mast and Charlie came up as close friends, and Renee, and James' mom, Riley, met in high school when Renee moved to Forks at sixteen years old. Same thing goes for Edward's parents. Carlisle Cullen is Charlie's second half, without the weed.

Maybe with the weed. Who knows?

They were a tight group of five—impenetrable. Derek and Riley have always been together, but the rumor is that before Renee came into town, Carlisle and Charlie were both in love with Esme. Who, like them, grew up in La Push. She apparently dated both boys at different times, and still, from time to time, they'll joke about how silly it was. There were never any hard feelings, although I did hear Carlisle knocked Charlie out with his skateboard once.

After Renee entered the picture, and as the generation before us got older, they all got married. Derek and Riley first at seventeen. Six months later, at eighteen, my parents got hitched, and three months after them, Carlisle and Esme tied the knot. They all swear it wasn't planned, but each couple got pregnant within months of each other. Edward was born in March, James was born in April, and I was born in May.

I'd like to think we're all as close as our parents remain.

We're not as opposed to "outsiders" as our mothers and fathers are. They strictly believe you have to be born and bred in La Push to hang with them. But the town has grown since they were young. A lot of families moved here through the years, so there are more kids our age. Like Felix, who moved here when we were nine. Remington arrived when we were twelve, and Dani settled in when we were fifteen. Rosalie and Jasper just moved in last year, and Alice a few months back.

A year and a half ago, when Remington and I started dating, Charlie mourned. He had this sick idea that Edward and I were going to get married and have lots of—never mind.

Smirks has been with Dani for a little over nine months, and like Charlie, Esme and Carlisle hate the idea. Our parents have this whole "date your own kind" way of thinking. Which is totally bizarre and way fucking stupid, because their idea of "your own kind" consists solely of me, James, and Edward.

We can't marry each other!

Besides, Smirks is the only male in that equation. He's cute, white boy crazy, surfer boy crazy, and I love him, but I don't _love_ him. I remember when he used to pick his nose in kindergarten, and in the fifth grade, I was taller than him for like, the whole year. When he went through puberty, his voice used to squeak and he got all these pimples on his forehead. He smelled like sweat all of the time, and his arms and legs were awkwardly long.

He changed a lot after that summer, though. His skin cleared up and his voice deepened. Edward grew into his limbs, leaving him well over six feet tall. He allowed his hair to grow out a little and he let his shorts hang low. He started to work out, forming muscle where there was none before. I used to sit with him while he would lift weights in his garage, and after he was done, he'd make me touch his arms. He would always have something really lame to say like, "Welcome to the gun show."

Growing up, we all called him Smirks because he had the most charming grin, but after he turned evil, Edward realized his nickname magically caused panties to drop. Now we call him Smirks for a whole new reason.

He's a jerk.

Besides, if I had to marry within "our kind," I'd marry James. She's the love of my life. We were taught to skate, swim, and surf together. When we were six, she and I stuck oranges in our bathing suits to pretend we had boobs; when we turned fourteen, we didn't have to pretend anymore. At fifteen, we pricked the tips of our pointer fingers with a safety pin and became blood sisters. We've been through it all together—twice and three times.

She's the mast that supports my sail.

But something tells me shit is about to get real.

"Come over," I say. "Please."

.

.

.

Twelve minutes later, James strolls through my bedroom door with her board under her arm and pink Ray-Bans on her face. Her platinum blonde, pixie cut hair is pushed up into a faux hawk, and she smells like banana-carrot tanning spray.

"Your dad totally tracked sand into the kitchen, and he left the mayonnaise out," she says as she shuts the door behind her. She drops her board and jumps on the bed.

I've returned to the mirrors, still too afraid to really look at my stomach. I'm not stupid, though. Even if I am, it would be too early to see anything. It's just the idea.

"Bella," James says, pushing her glasses to the top of her head. "I cannot believe you had sex with Edward on your birthday." She laughs, scooting to the end of the bed until her legs hang over. "He's such a douchebag."

If it were not for her reminding me every day since it happened, I might have forgotten.

Yeah, right.

I turn and look at her. "He isn't so bad."

She's secretly, not-so-secretly in love with Felix, which makes no sense because he would love her back in a minute if she ever told him how she really felt. They hook up sometimes, and they hang out always. Everyone assumes they're a couple, but they're just not. I think James likes the notion of love, but she doesn't want the obligation. Her spirit is too free for all the drama being someone's girlfriend involves. She wants to be able to still do her, while she _does_ Felix.

It's complicated.

James being James, she makes no excuses for herself or anyone else. My girl is exactly who she is: unconventional, upbeat, and provoking. When I told her about what happened with Edward in my truck, she laughed for an hour. It was ridiculous. It was hilarious.

"Dani is going to kick your ass," she said. "I bet Edward has the smallest dick, right?" she asked. "Oh my, God! You had sex with Smirks!"

And then she asked the most important question: "Do you even like him?"

The answer was no. It was just something that occurred.

I'm almost positive Felix knows, so other than myself, Edward, Felix and James, it's our secret—the first real scandal in the "our kind" circle of three. James doesn't allow us any of us to forget it happened, but in front of other people, we play like nothing is different. Which isn't too hard to do; Edward is one of my closest friends. Only now we've seen each other naked, sweaty, and undone.

He does not have the smallest dick.

The night we had sex—which just so happened to be my birthday—we went back inside the house and told everyone we were looking for seashells when our absence was questioned. No one mistrusted our alibi—they were all too drunk. Thankfully, Dani and Remington weren't there at all.

Remi and I broke up three or four months ago, so we aren't together. He'll flip if he finds out, though. We go back and forth—we're that couple. We're maddening and deep in lust, and I'm crazy like my mother was; he loves it. Normally, when we split, we don't mess around with other people. Remington and I know we'll eventually get back together, even if it's only out of habit. Before Edward, he was the only boy I'd ever been with.

And James is right: if Dani finds out, she'll kick my ass.

_Snort. _

Or she'll try.

Actually, that girl is crazy. She might.

James looks amused. "Remington is on the beach."

I turn back toward the mirror. "Did you talk to him?"

She shakes her head. "No, but Edward did."

I meet her eyes through the reflection and feel my cheeks warm. I bring my thumb between my lips and nibble on my nail. James slips from the bed onto her bare feet and smiles.

"He didn't say anything, Bella." She pulls my hair from its pony. Waist-length, dark blonde wavy hair falls down my back. "He wouldn't do that," she says, running her fingers through my still-damp tresses. "He likes Remi, and he loves Dani, and what happened, well"—she smirks—"blame it on the alcohol."

I smile and roll my eyes. "Okay, Jaime Foxx."

She reaches over to my nightstand and grabs a pink bobby pin to hold my bangs back. After they're secure, she opens my closet and pulls out my Girl. She drops my skateboard beside hers and says, "Let's go."

I don't move, even though she already has my bedroom door open. With her sunglasses back over her eyes, she waits with her board in her hand.

"What the shit, Sail?" she questions, motioning for me to walk out ahead of her.

I'm not crying, even though I feel like I should be. There's pressure behind my eyes and an ache in my jaw, and anxiety is pushing hard against my heart. I'm completely still and my face is unexpressive. I've seen this shit on TV and in the movies before: this is the part where the teenage girl acts all melodramatic and ugly cries while she stares at her stomach in the mirror. Maybe I'm in shock, because the only thing I say while James still waits for me is:

"I think I'm pregnant."

Jamie takes over the role as over-the-top ugly crier and shrieks, "What?"

.

.

.

My best friend is back on the bed, counting the days on the calendar using her fingers, over and over like I was before she showed up.

"Do you have another calendar?" she asks, still staring at the weeks.

I kind of pace. "Does it make a difference?" I ask.

She holds the calendar up. "This one might be broken, Bella."

I rub my eyes. "It's not, James."

"Let me see you," she orders, closing the month of May. "Can you tell? Are you showing? Does it hurt?"

I smack her hand away when she tries to reach for me. I'm chewing all of my fingernails off, still keeping my eyes away from my stomach area. Like the baby that may or may not be inside of me will wave and say, _"Hey Mom_."

Mom? Me?

_Oh, fuck no. _

I can't think.

I can't breathe.

Charlie is going to kill me. And Edward.

Then he won't have a wife or a daughter. He'll have a grandchild all to himself, though. If Edward and I are dead, someone has to raise the baby.

Shock is wearing off and reality is settling in, and this is so fucked up. I'm going to freak out. I can feel it sizzling beneath my skin, trickling through pores and tear ducts, and I'm going to lose my fucking mind. I can't be anyone's mother. I can't have a baby.

"I'm only sixteen," I half-cry, meeting James' blue eyes.

She shakes her head. "You're seventeen."

I scoff. "Yeah, I've been seventeen for like, two minutes."

"Six weeks," she corrects. Then she laughs. "You and Smirks conceived your baby on your birthday!"

"Shut up," I groan.

She gasps. "I mean, it's Edward's right?"

I nod. I almost throw up. "Yeah. I haven't been with Remi since before we broke up."

I fan my face with my hands, suddenly feeling hot and overwhelmed. I'm walking back and forth in front of my closet mirrors, burning a hole in the oak floors.

"Maybe I'm not," I say, feigning hope. "We used a condom, and we only did it once."

James stands to her feet. "Have you taken a test?"

My eyes are starting to burn. "No, but I never miss my period."

She grabs my wrist, stopping my feet. "We need to get you tested. Do you have any money?"

My eyes move beyond her toward my dresser where I pile all my cash. During the summer, we all have to work. Not only because our parents own different businesses along the shoreline, but because it's our obligation as residents of La Push to keep the town up and running during the summer. It's dead around here in the winter, so in the off season, if we want to keep our surfboards waxed and our skateboards taped, we work our asses off while we're out of school, and we save.

To keep things interesting, Edward works at Charlie's and I work at Munchies, Carlisle and Esme's candy shop. James teaches people how to surf, and Felix works at the store where they rent out beach cruisers, jet skis, and snorkeling gear.

I have a shift tonight, but I'm calling in on the grounds that I might be their son's baby mama.

"In my drawer," I say.

James turns and steps toward my dresser. She opens the top drawer and digs through all my socks and underwear until she finds the envelope filled with money. I'm still stuck in place, afraid to move, like making any sudden movements might cause me to be more pregnant than I may be.

James starts counting twenties. "How much is a pregnancy test?" she asks. "Is sixty enough?"

"I don't know," I answer, remaining very still. "Take a hundred just in case."

She looks over at me, shoving bills into her pocket. "What are you doing?" she asks, slipping the envelope back into the drawer and sliding it shut. "This isn't the time to strike a pose, Sail. Get your fucking shoes on. We can Vogue after we find out if you're knocked up or not."

I stay in place. James rolls her eyes and grabs my green Chucks from the corner of the room. She turns each one over and empties the sand onto the floor. It's a habit, I know. Our shoes are always sand-filled—_but holy shit!_ I watch hundreds of tiny beach granules hit the wood like missiles, destroying my fragile calm, and I finally lose it.

"I just swept!" I cry, pointing my finger at James.

I stomp my foot and I jump up and down and I fucking cry. My hands are in my hair and my knees are giving out. I fall on my butt and hide my face between my knees, but then my face is too close to my stomach, so I fall flat on my back. I kick and scream like a two-year-old. I roll over onto my stomach and cry harder when sand gets stuck to my cheek.

"The baby! Be careful!" James shouts as she stands over me. She tries to roll me back over.

"My life is done!" I wail. "I'm going to be fat," I whine. "I'll have to drop out of school," I say. "I'm going to be fat!"

I attempt to sit up and James helps me to my feet. When we lean too far forward, though, we smash skulls—hard. It's enough to knock me back down, and my best friend falls beside me. Palming our foreheads, side by side on the sandy floors, James and I look over at each other. We're crying, but shouts and shrieks have turned into laughter.

Once our laughter softens and truth insists, James says, "We can do this ourselves, or I can call my mom, B. Your choice."

I sit up and reach for my shoes, dumping the rest of the sand out before slipping them on. "Let's just go." I leave my laces untied as I stand to my feet and walk to the door. "But you're driving."

.

.

.

It's mid-afternoon and the sun is out, breathing fire over La Push. My truck doesn't have air-conditioning, but since we live at the beach, we usually don't need it. Today is one of those exceptions. There are usually a couple of weeks a year when it gets too hot to do anything other than swim in the ocean, but never in June. With that in consideration, my mind starts playing tricks on me.

I once heard that pregnant women are thirty degrees warmer than normal women because they're carrying another person inside of them. So, am I this hot because we're having an unseasonably early heat wave, or is it because I'm carrying Edward Cullen's child?

James buckles her seatbelt and looks over at me before she starts the truck. "Are you okay?"

My stomach starts to roll and everything smells disgusting. Is this morning sickness, or nerves?

Am I faking?

I am my mother's daughter. I am a huge fucking faker.

Do I really want to eat pickles and whipped cream right now, or is that just something I feel like women do when they're pregnant?

Should I turn on classical music so my kid is smart? Should I sign up for Lamaze classes? Should Edward and I get married? Should I have another kid right away so this kid isn't lonely? Edward, James, and I are only children and we weren't lonely, but we had each other. This baby won't have anyone. Maybe I can talk James and Felix into having a baby, too. It's only fair.

Should I call MTV and ask them if I can be on the next season of _16 and Pregnant?_

No, those bitches are crazy.

But MTV pays for their diapers.

How much are diapers?

How do you even work a diaper?

How old before a baby can change their own diaper?

"James," I say as she backs out of the driveway. "Do you know how to change a diaper?"

She makes a face of disgust and changes her attention from the rearview mirror to me. Her sunglasses slip down her nose and my best friend's green eyes focus on my blue ones.

"Don't you remember when we had those mechanical babies in Child Development?"

I half-laugh. "Yeah, you tried to take your baby surfing and lost it in the waves."

She nods. "Exactly."

I decide never to ask James another question about babies again. Although, she did remind me of those machine infants we had last year and my worries start all over again. That baby wasn't even real and we killed it. I couldn't handle the crying and the fake feeding. After the first night, I shoved it in the closet and tried to forget about it. I managed to get some sleep; Charlie on the other hand—closet or no closet—was up all night. The next morning, while I was still in bed, my sleepy father took the robot darling out to the garage and threw it in the trunk of his car. It stayed there until I went back to school.

It was a boy.

I got an F on the fake baby assignment.

James got a bill.

Just when my worries can't get any more annoying, right as James is about to put the Chevy in drive and speed away, Remington rolls in front of the truck. Shirtless, shoeless, sun kissed and hot-tossed-gorgeous, he kicks his board up before he walks over to my side of the road. We're in the middle of the lane, and once he's out of the way, but not yet at my window, I tell James to hurry up and go.

I pull on her arm. "Just drive, Jamie!"

But it's too late, and Remi is already opening my door.

"Sorry," James mumbles.

I backhand her in the chest and smile at my ex. Remington has his sweaty-wet hair pulled back. A few stray, curly pieces hang in his eyes. He smells like dog days. Like sea and salt and sunblock. I love the freckles on his shoulders. I dig the cuts on his knuckles. They're results of doing what we love most: being young, wild, and free. His dark eyes are dark, and his long eyelashes are so long. It's impossible not to smile and swoon when he's around. It's impossible not to be affected.

"Where you have been, Sail?" he asks, nodding over at James.

I feel sweat pool between my breasts. My hairline is damp and my sunglasses slide down my nose. I push them up. I can't look at him. It's killing me.

I try to smile, but it's a sad substitute for what he deserves. "I just saw you," I answer, looking forward.

I'm burning up.

I'm so fucking hot.

"Two days ago," he replies.

I shift in my seat and give Remington my consideration. But instead of looking at him in the eyes, I look at his forehead. If he can judge where my attention is through my sunglasses, he doesn't say. He only leans into me. His nose touches mine and his lips sweep across my own.

I feel guilty.

And warm.

"Miss you, you know?" he asks loud enough for my ears only.

I nod and try not to cry.

I turn straight in my seat. "I'll call you later."

He stands upright, holding his board at his hip. "Going somewhere?"

I open my mouth to answer, but James does it for me. "We're meeting up with our boyfriends. Step the fuck away from the truck, Remington."

She sticks her tongue out at him.

He flips her off and steps back, shutting the passenger side door. Before he rides off, he says, "Love ya, babe."

I feel two feet tall.

And hot.

Way fucking hot.

If I were driving, I would have burned rubber and took off down the road like Ricky Bobby, because if you're not first you're last, but James is behind the wheel. She likes to cruise—window down, music loud, elbow out. She's so fucking cool. Which is great because I'm … hot.

"Drive faster," I complain, fanning my face. I hold my hair up from my neck and melt into cracked leather.

"Oh!" James sits up. "Act normal."

I smile. She's sitting straight up with both hands on the steering wheel—so far from ordinary. But then my smile falls. Three houses down, sitting on the bumper of his 1964 Volkswagen Bus, is Smirks.

It's his pride—his baby.

Carlisle and Esme bought it for his fifteenth birthday, and he's spent every day since working on it. He's always restoring or replacing something, and it's come a long way in the last two years. Forest green and white, with eleven windows and a wood slat roof rack, we've stacked his van with our surfboards and driven down the coast more times than I can count. On the nights we don't want to come home, we make beds out of our damp towels and sleep on the oversized bench seats. We'll leave all the windows open and sing along with Talib Kweli or Lauryn Hill until the sun comes up or our voices die out, whichever comes first. On those days, the sand doesn't matter.

That bus is the soundtrack to our lives.

As we roll by Edward's house, James and I act "normal" by sitting up too straight, smiling too big, and waving too much. He winks as we pass, because that's what Smirks does. When we turn left at the end of the street, my girl and I sit back and take a deep breath. James wonders if Edward noticed anything was off.

I only wonder what a car seat will look like in his van.


	3. Strawberry Fanta

**I do not own Twilight or Dani California. **

**Thank you so much for reading. I don't have a chapter-by-chapter soundtrack for Pickup Truck, but it's very Red Hot Chili Peppers, Lauryn Hill, Mos Def, Sublime, Janis Joplin, Van Morrison—old school hip-hop and rock. **

**Cry, cry, baby!**

**Huge thanks to PTB, Andrea, Filia, and my pre-reader, Kim. **

**.**

**.**

**.**

**Chapter Two**

**Bella**

"Well, we obviously can't go in there." James sits back, killing the truck's engine.

The problem with living in such a small town, neighbored by other small towns, is that nothing done in public is ever overlooked. Everyone is a friend of a friend, a cousin of a cousin, or an acquaintance of your parents. Gossip spreads quick and far. If I were to go into that Stop and Shop and buy a couple dozen pregnancy tests like I need to, by the time I got to the cash register, my dad would know about it—_everyone_ would.

Only the rumor would be much worse. I'd be pregnant with twins by two different men. I'd be showing. I'd be having an abortion. The rumor would be that I was stocking up on Tylenol so I could go home and off myself and my bastard baby.

"_Like her mom did,"_ they would say.

My mom didn't kill herself, though. She accidently fell asleep in the garage with the car on.

Totally not the same.

"Dani's mom works here, I think," James mentions, pushing her sunglasses to the top of her head. "Or is it her brother?"

I shake my head. "She doesn't have a brother."

"Oh."

"It's her stepsister," I say.

"No, her mom divorced that guy," James reminds me.

I shrug. "It's probably her mom, then."

James smiles. "Either way, we can't go in."

I open my glove compartment and dig through, looking for a hair tie. My tank top is clinging to my overheated skin. Sweat is dripping from my neck, down my spine. The backs of my knees are moist, and my thighs are slippery against the leather seats. The cab of my pickup truck is comparable to a sauna. Even with the windows down and the sea breeze coming through, I'm melting.

"We can drive into Forks," I say, finally finding a hair band. It's covered in candy crumbs and lint, but I don't give a shit. "They have a Walmart."

Once my hair is up, I sit back and pull perspiration-sticky cotton from my chest and stomach.

"Fuck that." James laughs. "Felix's Aunt Ursula is the door greeter."

I nod. "That's right. And Mr. Banner works in Lawn and Garden during the summer."

James cracks up. "This town is so lame."

I laugh with her, because it's true. Mid-laugh, though, I feel something kick. Then I remember I haven't had anything to eat all day. I'm famished, not pregnant.

Hopefully.

Or am I this hungry because I _am_ pregnant? Does my stomach always growl like this when I've been without food? If I am with child, am I starving my kid? How often do I have to eat? Can I still eat the rum fudge from Munchies? Do babies even kick this early?

Then: "I drank last weekend, James. I've been drunk every weekend!" I'm fanning my face again. "What if I ruined my baby?"

James starts the truck. "Calm down, Sail. There might not even be a baby."

I pull off my sunglasses. "There could be."

My best friend reverses the truck and pulls out of the parking spot. "Do they sell pregnancy tests at gas stations?"

"I don't know. Why?"

She bites on her bottom lip before saying, "There's that Thrifty Gas on the edge of town we could—"

I shake my head. "Nope. Remington's cousin twice removed, Paul, works there."

James smacks the steering wheel, accidently honking the horn. "Dammit!"

.

.

.

We end up in Port Angeles.

James and I walk hand in hand through the doors of Save Mart, and we make it as far as the tampon aisle before we bump into Alice Brandon.

_So much for being safe. _

Alice looks us up and down before asking, "Hey, girls. What the heck are you doing here?"

Dressed in a yellow maxi dress, Alice has her long blonde hair in a fishtail braid and her makeup clean and summertime light. She's pushing a red basket full of beach supplies and snacks in front of her. Considering the condition James and I are in, I don't blame Alice for looking at us the way she is. We're an hour away from home, sweat drenched and nervous; I'd look at us funny, too.

Instead of making something up, I answer her question with a question. "What are _you_ doing here?"

That's all I have to say. Alice is kind of full of herself, so she's always dying for an invitation to talk about whatever is going on in her life. But when she responds,_ "Don't we all come out here for our pregnancy tests?"_ I almost pass out. I think James does. She kind of falls into me, and I'm pretty sure the light goes out behind her eyes for like, two seconds.

When Alice notices that James and I have no words, she starts to laugh. "I'm fucking with you!"

Unfortunately for my mast and I, we have to stand around for another ten minutes while Ally tells us all about her trip to U-Dub and a pending volleyball scholarship. She spent the weekend on campus just to make sure she liked it, and after meeting a few boys, she decided she loves Seattle. Although, none of us are to tell her boyfriend, Jasper—who, according to Alice, is bent out of shape about her college plans. Her weekend away really pissed him off, so she's planning a night on the beach—just the two of them.

Not that I give a shit.

Thankfully, her cell phone rings and it gives us all an excuse to go about our business.

Now, James and I are standing in front of the pregnancy tests. After the Alice run-in, I'm feeling a bit suspicious. Every time someone walks by, I'm convinced they know who I am and what I'm doing.

Isn't that your mom's gardener?

Isn't that the guy who did that one thing that one time?

Is that Rosalie's dentist?

Doesn't that kid go to our school?

Doesn't that girl work at the hamburger place?

One lady comes by talking on her cellphone; I almost grab it out of her hands and demand to know who she's talking to.

James calls me crazy. "We're teenagers looking at pregnancy tests. Of course they're looking at us, Sail."

I just thought Cell Phone Lady looked familiar.

James holds up two boxes. "What's the difference between an ovulation test and a pregnancy test?"

I shrug, looking over her shoulder. "Maybe we should get them both just in case."

James lowers both boxes and looks back at me. "Is it too late for Plan B?"

I roll my eyes and move back to the Wall o' Future Tellers. I pick up an EPT test. "I think you have to take that the day after, J."

I read the purple and white box: _Over 99% accuracy from the day of your expected period. Quick results in two minutes. Easy to read results._

"This should work," I say, showing James the box. "It's error proof."

"Good," she answers. "Get five."

I grab six.

.

.

.

There's only one register open, and the lady in front of us is buying her body weight in prune juice. It's disgusting.

"What do you think she does with all of that?" James whispers in my ear.

"I don't know," I whisper back, smiling when Prune Juice Lady looks at us. "Maybe she fills a small pool with it and swims."

"That's so fucking cool," J answers.

To make matters worse, PJL pays with a check. The pen she's using runs out of ink. Then she can't find her ID. Then, when she's ready to hand the check over, she rips it, and she has to start all over. She can't write another one, though; the ripped check was her last check. After all of that drama, she uses her debit card.

"You've got to be kidding me." James scoffs as the lady grabs her last bag of prune juice.

Since my girl has the money, she stands in front of me. I drop all of the pregnancy tests on the conveyor belt. PJL and the cashier look at our load and back at us, judging.

As if they've never seen a couple of teenagers buy six pregnancy tests before.

_Wait._

I think I know the cashier.

As he scans each test one at a time, I elbow James. "Is he the guy who knew that one guy who was in that band?"

"What?" she asks, counting the twenties from her pocket. "Who?"

I smile when the familiar-looking clerk eyes me. "The cashier, James. He's that guy."

"That band that Edward's cousin was in? The drummer?" she asks.

"Yes!" I hiss, smiling. "Is he the guy who knew him?"

James leans over to get a closer look at the twentysomething Save Mart guy. He kind of backs away from her, but she tips forward. My best girl tilts her head and squints her eyes before shaking her head.

"Nah, B. That guy had brown eyes."

SMG has green eyes.

"You're paranoid," she assures me, shoving a handful of bills toward the cashier.

Green-Eyed Save Mart Guy counts our change and hands over the goods. "Good luck," he says.

James snatches our purchases from his hand. "That was rude. These are for my mom."

SMG gets really, really red.

As do I.

"We're teenagers!" James whisper-yells, acting all appalled. "We have our whole lives ahead of us."

SMG practically shoves the receipt toward James and immediately starts ringing up the lady who was waiting behind us. She's judging, too.

_Wait. _

I know her.

Before I have a chance to speculate who she might be, James pulls me along. Before we actually get out the doors, though, she turns back around, straight for Save Mart Guy.

"Can I help you?" he questions warily.

"Where are the restrooms?" James asks.

If I felt two feet tall when we ran into Remington earlier, I feel two inches tall now.

SMG actually looks away from his current customer, mid-scan. He's holding up a douche and doesn't even know it. Which is a lot more embarrassing for the lady waiting to check out than it is for me. She's judging James and I for buying six pregnancy tests, and she may even be aware that one of us is about to take these tests in a Save Mart public restroom, but she's Douche Lady.

I'd rather be the fucked-up teenager.

"At the end of aisle six," SMG finally answers, continuing his douche scan.

DL is humiliated.

I smile at her.

Without another word, James and I stroll down aisle six. It feels like we're walking _The Green Mile. _

Dead girl walking.

Dead girl walking.

Halfway down our slow decent, I yawn. I've heard pregnant ladies are always super tired and lethargic. But am I yawning because I woke up early this morning to sweep sand, or am I yawning because Edward's sperm sexually assaulted my egg?

Are community restrooms safe for expectant mothers? Will some kind of Save Mart public toilet germ breach my hooha and taint my maybe-baby?

"James, we should wait," I say, all-over nervous again.

She reaches the restroom door before I do. She pushes it open with her left hand and stands back so I can go in before her. "Fuck that," she says. "We're doing this."

There are three off-white colored stalls, two sinks, two mirrors, and a flickering fluorescent light. The walls are painted a pale brown, and the air smells like disinfectant and toilet water.

I gag.

James directs me toward the largest of the three stalls. When we're inside, she latches the lock and pulls out an EPT test. I rip down two seat protectors and place them over the toilet bowl. I'm currently learning the hard way that only using one of something that's supposed to protect you doesn't always work out in your favor—I'm doubling up from now on.

I shimmy out of my shorts and sit.

"Okay," James says as she reads the test's directions. "All you have to do is pee on this stick and the results should show up in this little box." She shows me the little box; I nod. "Plus sign for a positive result, and a minus sign for a negative one."

"Come on, minus sign!" I say cheerfully.

James tugs the cap from the pee-wand and hands it to me.

With a shaky hand, I shove the stick between my legs—finding it ironic that a rod amid my thighs is exactly what got me here in the first place—and wait.

I don't have to pee, though.

I try to force it. I push and pray and chant "Pee, pee, pee," but nothing works.

"Seriously?" James asks. Her hands are on her hips.

"I don't have to go," I say defensively.

She thinks about this for a moment. "Maybe you're not pregnant, then. I think pregnant chicks pee like, all of the time."

I look up at her with the dry stick. "Go get me a Coke."

She nods. "Good idea."

I give up while she's gone. I close my knees and whistle, and I read all the graffiti on the walls. One of the scribbles makes me laugh:

"_I love your Crocs," said nobody ever._

Since I like that one so much, I keep reading:

_Everything you do matters._

That ruins it.

To keep myself busy, I flip the pee-stick around. I almost drop it, so I stop. I tear toilet paper from the roll and rip off little pieces. I make spit wads and launch them toward the farthest corner of the stall. When that gets boring, I think about calling Remington. Then I realize how fucked up that would be, and don't.

I also realize he's who I seem to always turn to when I'm bored.

Finally, after what seems like forever, James returns with a two-liter bottle of Strawberry Fanta she didn't pay for.

I give her a dirty look. I hate Strawberry Fanta.

"It's the first thing I saw," James says, unscrewing the cap.

I laugh. "You were gone for ten minutes."

She waves me off. "I totally thought I saw someone we knew, so I was like, ducking and dodging." She shakes her head. "Anyway, we ended up in the same aisle. I didn't know him at all."

I reach for the soda. "If we make it through this alive, we need to move far away from Washington."

Jaime feigns shock. "What? And not continue the 'Our Kind' circle of three? Count me out, Bella."

Without any other option, I guzzle strawberry crap straight from the bottle. Carbonation bubbles burn my esophagus and my eyes water. The first swig is almost so painful I don't want to take another, but James stands right in front of me to make sure I do.

Fourth drink in, I kind of like it. It's not too bad, after all. But do I like it because I was unknowingly dying of thirst and this is the only thing I have, or are my taste buds changing because Smirks' seed somehow penetrated latex and now we're going to be a family of three?

I've consumed half the bottle, and burped twice, before the familiar pressure starts to build in my bladder.

I look up at James, and she looks down at me, and then I say, "I think this is it."

I set the remaining half of the Strawberry Fanta on the floor beside my feet, place the stick where it belongs, and close my eyes.

But I feel James staring.

It takes her a moment to comprehend that her gawking is fucking with my flow—literally.

She throws her arms in the air. "Oh, come on, Sail. I've seen you pee a million times."

I make a circling motion with my pointer finger. "I don't care. This is different."

When my best girl turns around, and after I make her plug her ears, I pee. I almost expect my urine to be red from how much food coloring I've ingested, but it's the normal color. Although, the fact that this may be the most significant pee I've ever taken does not skip my mind. One way or another, my life will change. Either I'll find out I'm going to be a mother at seventeen, or I'll vow to never have sex again.

This is far too stressful to ever go through twice.

Once the pee-wand is nice and saturated, I can't bring myself to look at the indicator screen. I close my eyes and call for James.

I hold the test out. "Take it."

James takes the test, sets it aside, and says, "Hold your pee, Bella. Take another one just in case."

She's quick about ripping the box apart and tearing the pregnancy test from its plastic wrapping. She pops the top off and hands it to me. With what little I have left, I pee out my future.

James takes the second test and sets it beside the first one, on top of the tiny trash can attached to the stall wall. From the toilet, I can't see the results, and if James knows them, she isn't saying anything. With her bottom lip between her teeth and her hands on her hips, she gives nothing away.

"Drink some more soda, Bella," she says without an ounce of humor in her normally humorous tone.

I don't ask questions before reaching for the second half of the strawberry Fanta and drink; I just do it. I don't complain about the taste—which has turned to shit again—and I don't nag about the burn from the carbonation. The mood has turned heavy, and the seriousness we share about what's happening has shrunk the bathroom stall. As the walls close in, my heart lodges itself in my throat, choking me with each concerned beat.

James passes me a third test, and I go just enough to saturate the testing strip. When I hold the wand out, she finally looks at me as she takes it. Her hand has the slightest tremble and her cheeks are bright, anxious-red. Her eyes look profoundly troubled, deep and dark and lingering, right before she turns and sets the third test beside the other two.

Her shoulders are hunched, shortening her generally tall frame. She taps her foot and runs her right hand through her short hair, leaving it this way and that way.

I know this girl better than she may even know herself, and it's not very often she's this quiet. My best friend has two settings: quick and quicker. Everything's a joke, everything's funny, and everything's light. She's wild, witty, and reckless, with no in-betweens. Nothing gets her down, which only makes her current attitude scarier.

Our Save Mart bag has three unused pregnancy tests left in it, but I don't think I can make myself drink any more soda. If all three tests come up with the same result, another three aren't going to change anything. It is what it is.

When I stand, James snaps out of her spell. She gathers all three tests from the top of the trash can and holds them in her hand while I pull up my bikini bottoms and shorts. She smiles, more like she normally does. When I turn around and push the lever with my foot to flush, she makes a joke about the toilet seat ring on the back of my thighs.

I half-smile and face fate.

"So," James starts, hiding the tests behind her back. "I heard these things are wrong all the time—"

What your body does right before you receive life-altering news is awful. The anxiety is so bad, I wouldn't be surprised if my chest caved in. There's tension in my elbows and neck, and my knuckles ache from holding my fists so tightly closed. I don't realize I haven't taken a breath until I start to feel light-headed. My stomach is in double knots, and my heart is beating so hard, I can feel it in my teeth.

My whole body is waiting to see what those tests say, so it can either self-destruct or relax. But deep down, I already know.

My inner voice repeats: _positive, positive, positive._ As if telling myself the truth before I actually live it will make the blow less excruciating.

It doesn't.

James holds her hand out between us with all three tests face up on her palm. "They might be wrong, Bella."

With a heavy heart, I look.

Positive. Positive. Positive.

Three little, red plus signs, all in a row.

I cover my mouth with both hands, and with watery eyes, I look up at my best friend. She's already crying, but I'm too in shock to even start.

"Say something," she says.

My hands lower from my face to my stomach, where I hold both palms flat against where my baby is. Only I'm not doing it because some kind of motherly instinct has kicked in. I do it because Strawberry Fanta and I do not get along. Before I can say anything about how fucked my life is, I turn and aim at the toilet as red liquid comes back up.

_Gross._

.

.

.

Walking out of Save Mart with red vomit all over my tank and my crying best friend on my arm is the ultimate walk of shame. I've never been so embarrassed in my life. One would think James just found out she was pregnant, not me. Which is what I think Save Mart Guy assumes as we pass by him for the last time.

He tells us to have a nice day.

James screams, "Shut up!" before crying out in agony again.

When we get into the truck, I get behind the wheel this time. Since James is the one having a mental breakdown, I comfort her while she comes undone. She has her head in my lap, and as tears fall from her eyes, I brush them away.

"Our lives are over," she sobs. "We're only seventeen!"

I smile. "James, I'm pregnant, not you."

She cries harder.

The sun is beginning to lower in the sky. Instead of shining from above, it's boiling from straight ahead. I pull down the sun visor, but that doesn't help the heat penetrating the windshield. Or the smell. James and I reek of sweat and puke and emotion. We're a hot mess, and we both need showers.

James sits up, all quivering chin and sniffling. Her eyelids are swollen from crying, and the redness in her cheeks brighten the freckles across her nose.

"Why are you not freaking out?" she asks, wiping her face.

I shrug and sit straight in my seat. I turn on the engine and roll down the window, letting in fresh air. "Because you are."

This brings on a new round of tears. "I'm sorry!"

I pull out of the parking spot and head home. "It's fine."

The drive back to La Push is slower than the drive to Port Angeles was. We know what we set out to learn, and now that I'm aware everything around me is going to fall apart, I'm in no hurry to get back. A million things run through my mind as my truck rolls down the highway: my future, Edward's future, Charlie, school, work, this baby. Not to mention Remington, and my friendship with Dani.

I don't usually mind if people like me or not, but I'm Bella Swan: Crazy Renee and Pothead Charlie's daughter. My mother killed herself in our garage, and my dad gets high every day to forget it happened. No one will be surprised when they learn of my own indignity. My parents are fucked, so of course I have to be, too.

Halfway through the drive, James scoots to the middle of the bench seat and lays her head on my shoulder. "It's early, Sail. You have options."

I nod, but say nothing more.

It would be stupid to try and downsize the situation by saying I never saw myself in this position, like it was a total accident. Which it was, but I'm not on birth control, and I was sexually active way before I ever hooked up with Edward. Remington and I always used condoms, but you can never count on them working. My current condition is proof.

While the scary thought of becoming pregnant has crossed my mind a few times before, I never fathomed Smirks being included in the equation. He's my friend. He's only ever been my friend. Remington is my boyfriend. He's the one I should be going through this with, and because he's not, this is so much more heartbreaking.

It's going to kill him.

If I have this baby, it will literally rock our foundation. Relationships will be ruined, and friendships will be broken—not to mention what it will do to mine and Edward's families.

Slow tears begin to fall down my face as I pull off the highway into La Push. The familiar setting flares a new kind of panic: consequence.

James clears away my cries. "Oh, baby. We'll figure it out."

As much as I need her support, James and I won't be figuring anything out together. Edward and I will. No matter what, he has to be told. It would be so easy to take care of this myself. I've heard of other girls getting abortions—teen pregnancy happens—but I could never do that to him. I could never keep that kind of secret. It's too heavy to hold by myself.

One way or another, he'll be there for me.

That's what friends are for.

As gross and conflicted as I feel, I'm not ready to go home. If I go inside the house and Charlie's there, the lying begins. Just seeing my father and not telling him right away is an untruth. I've never lied to him before—not about anything important. Never about anything like this. Our father-daughter relationship is unconventional; I take care of him more than he takes care of me, but he's still my father. I follow the few rules he sets regarding grades and curfew, and I respect him as a man who raised me by himself. Telling Charlie I'm pregnant will shatter all the trust he has in me. I'm not a bad kid; I'm typical, and he knows. This will destroy that. If Edward and I decide not to keep the baby, what would be the point in breaking my dad's heart?

Besides, I can't be trapped inside the house. I have too much on my mind.

By the time we reach the beach, the sun is setting. The sky is the most beautiful pink, purple, and orange colors. The overwhelming heat is gone, replaced by the normal, cool sea breeze. The air smells like salt and ocean, and there are people out on the street riding bikes, skating, or walking. Bonfires are lit up and down the shore. Kids are still running back and forth from the water to the sand with their pails and shovels. Someone is barbequing hamburgers and hot dogs. The smell reminds me of how hungry I am, which reminds me I haven't eaten all day.

I probably should. I'm eating for two now.

I park on the sand, around the back of my house, and shut the truck off. While I wait by the front bumper, looking out toward the sea, James grabs the fold up chairs I always keep in the bed of my truck.

"Hungry?" she asks, setting out our seats.

I sit and nod, digging my toes beneath the sand. The same thoughts prowl my mind while she's away: baby, Edward, Charlie, life. When she comes back, she brings a small radio and my iPod with her. My girl made turkey sandwiches and brought out an entire bag of Doritos. James passes me a bottle of Aquafina, and she sips on a Coke Zero.

"Your dad isn't home," she says with a mouthful of bread and turkey.

I take smaller bites than her, still not trusting my stomach. I nod and dig my toes a little deeper. "I don't know what to do, James," I finally say.

She sets her sandwich on her knees and opens her mouth to reply, but before she can, we get a visitor.

He covers my eyes from behind and as soon as he touches me, I know it's Smirks.

"Guess who?" he whispers playfully.

In spite of the sudden sinking guilt I feel, I smile. "Hmm," I say. "Small, delicate hands, pussy voice—my guess is Rosalie."

He laughs.

Edward removes his hands, giving me back my sight. Instead of grabbing a chair, he stands in front of me. Still in the same board shorts he was in earlier, he's added a white tee shirt, which hides the freckles I know he has on the tops of his shoulders. His summertime-long auburn hair is sticking out from beneath his black Volcom hat, and his dark grey eyes look mischievously light in the lower sun. His arms and legs are tanned from long days on his boards—skating and surfing. And his feet are bare, just like they're supposed to be in the summer.

He's smirking, of course.

"My mom told me you called in to work," he says. He kicks around sand while I take another nervous bite of my sandwich.

James hasn't insulted him yet. If she doesn't, he'll know something's up.

"Actually," I start. "I had James call in for me. I threw up today."

He looks at me. James coughs.

"Strawberry Fanta," I say as an excuse.

He nods. He gets it.

Strawberry Fanta is the Devil.

A few awkward moments pass. James still hasn't insulted Edward, and I'm eating my sandwich at an alarming rate, not giving a fuck if my stomach can handle it or not. I dig my hand into the bag of chips and come up with a fistful of cheesy goodness. I'm about to shove all of them into my mouth because I don't know what else to do—_I'm pregnant, so I can if I want to_—when Edward says, "What the fuck is going on with you two? Where did you go today?"

I get scared and drop the rest of my sandwich. "Fuck!" I groan, picking it up. "There's sand on the bread."

It's the ice breaker we need because James finally starts laughing. She calls Edward a douchebag before she asks him his opinion on filling a small pool with prune juice.

He doesn't answer her, though.

He looks at me and says, "Blow on it, Sail. The sand comes right off."

Figures.


	4. Pancakes

**I do not own Twilight, but I did meet Stephenie Meyer once. Rob, too. **

**Huge thank you to Kim, Filia, and Andrea. **

**I do not condone teen pregnancy, nor am I trying to make light of it. It's just a story and I'm telling it, because let's face it—it happens. **

**Statistics: **

_More than 820,000 teens become pregnant each year. _

_80% of teen pregnancies are unintended. (Which means 20% are planned—where the fuck are their mothers?)_

**.**

**.**

**.**

**Chapter 3**

James, Smirks and I stay on the beach well past sunset. We let the music play; Common flows about ghetto dreams, ghetto ghetto dreams, while my best girl tries to dissect his lyrics. Edward and I sit by nearby and laugh.

"_Cinderella fancy, but she still looks hood,"_ James quotes the song. Her short hair is long-day messy, and exhaustion is obvious in the redness of her eyes. But she's waiting up for her boy, even if she won't admit it.

Or maybe the thought of leaving this beach terrifies her, like it does me.

"He's just saying she's down," James explains. "Like, she plays her part of a perfect girlfriend, but she would, like, die for him." She smiles. "I'm like that."

Edward laughs out loud. Moonlight casts shadows over his face, making his dark eyes look black under the bill of his hat. "You are not ghetto, James."

She makes a face, like she's appalled. "I'm a little bit ghetto."

"And I don't think that's what the song means at all," he says. "His girl is hood, end of story. He's just saying how."

James smiles. "I'm hood."

I snort. "You are so not hood."

Smirks, who never got himself a chair, is sitting beside me. For the last twenty minutes, he's been scooping up sand in his hand and pouring it over my feet. There's a small mountain of it above my toes. I wiggle them, and it comes crumbling down.

Down, like my life as soon as I tell everyone I'm pregnant.

"You're growing up in La Push, not East Los Angeles. You're not ghetto," Edward insists, starting a new mountain.

"I'm ghetto fabulous," James mumbles to herself, annoyed.

My girl lifts the hood of her hoodie over her sad little head, hiding her face behind turquoise cotton. She slouches in her seat and crosses her arms, totally pouting.

I reach over and squeeze her elbow. "Aww, I think you're ghetto, Mast."

James drops the pout and smiles. She looks over at me, half excited I'm supporting her ghetto-fabulous theory and half in pity. After all, I'm seventeen and pregnant. If anyone's hood, it's me.

And by default, Edward.

_We're_ ghetto fabulous, not her.

After a little more conversation on the topic, all three of us decide that if anyone's rightfully ghetto, it's Edward's girl, Dani California. Not only is she originally from Detroit, but her hair is bleach blonde with three inches of black regrowth. She chews gum with her mouth open, and she says "cray" instead of "crazy" because she heard it in a Kanye West song. Dani claims Eminem is her cousin, and she drinks sugar water. It's, like, her favorite.

James starts cracking up. "Remember that one time she filled a sandwich bag with pancakes and syrup?"

I can tell the exact moment Edward remembers. His face burns, and he starts shaking his head, smirking.

"Yeah," I say. "We were in English class freshmen year, and she sat in the back. She ate them out of the bag with a spork!"

I have to hold my hand over my stomach, I'm laughing so hard. Eventually, Edward gives in and starts laughing, too. He falls into the sand, and his hat comes off his head, finally showing his entire face.

"She's so fucking ghetto," he says between chuckles.

"I think she still has Christmas lights around her house!" James says, practically crying.

"She does," Edward says. "She turned them on the other night!"

James falls out of her seat and rolls in the sand with Smirks. Tears are streaming from my eyes, and it's such a different feeling to what I've been going through all day. This is effortless and fun and what we're supposed to be doing. This is what being a kid is: laughing until we cry, rolling in the sand.

I clear my face and laugh a little softer, allowing reality to settle in. I listen and watch while James and Edward go back and forth, telling stories about Dani. They're so animated when they talk. They use their hands and their expressions, and they change their tone of voice as they impersonate Miss California.

"Whenever we drink," James says, "she always pours a little out for all of her lost homies!"

Edward rolls his eyes. "The only homie she's ever lost is the one out of the quarter machine."

James—who is lying beside Edward—backhands him in the chest. "Your girl is a trip, Smirks."

Just like that, I'm not laughing anymore. Neither is James. Edward is, though. At least until he realizes we're not. Even then, he chuckles a little, like he can't help it.

My eyes start to water as guilt kills me a bit more.

Edward and I didn't have a conversation where we agreed never to tell Remington or Dani we slept together—it was just expected. As soon as it was over, we knew we shouldn't have done it. It was awkward and strange. Edward had his bare ass on my leather seats, and my hard nipples were on his chest, and it just wasn't supposed to be like that with us. We got carried away, and shit happens … but Dani is my friend. Her stories about Detroit are hilarious, and I dig that she eats pancakes out of lunch baggies. The only reason she even bleached her black hair blonde is because she liked mine so much.

James and I helped her do it. We bought the kit from Walmart and applied it while she sat on one of her kitchen chairs on her front porch. Her mama, who Dani inherited her wild from, smoked a cigarette and grilled hamburgers.

Dani is loyal, and she doesn't take shit from anyone. We were all surprised when she and Edward started dating—white trash from Michigan paired up with La Push royalty—but we were not disappointed. As odd as they are, they work.

Just like me and Remi.

I'm responsible for the end of these relationships, and as remorseful as I am, some brand new, growing protectiveness inside of me knows this new human life is more important than the loss Edward and I will both suffer. Like, the gain is more valuable.

James stands up and dusts herself off. She sits in her chair and extends a hand, which I take. Edward sits up, too; sand cascades from the back of his white shirt. He shakes out his hair and puts his hat on his head. With his arms on his knees, he scopes out my best friend and I. Inside I'm screaming, "I'm pregnant. I'm pregnant. I'm pregnant!" On the outside, I'm perfectly serene.

I'm trying to be, anyway. I feel like my too-hard-beating heart is rocking my entire body, and I'm hoping Edward hasn't, all of a sudden, obtained the ability to read minds.

That would be fucked up.

He's looking at me like he can, though. His grey eyes find mine, and he doesn't look away, like he's waiting for me to explain what's going on. I would never have guessed James and I are so transparent. Then again, I never would have guessed I'd be knocked up with Edward's kid, either.

I know my eyes are still tear-filled, so I wipe them with my free hand and accuse James of getting sand in my eye when she stood up a moment ago.

"Sorry," she apologizes, catching my drift. "Let me see."

I face her and blink, blink, blink, trying to play this off. I rub a little more and complain a little more. "Do you see anything?" I ask, opening up wide.

James blows air in my eye, like blowing on sand is the only way to make it go away.

"I think you're good," she says, before blowing one more time, just in case.

Edward isn't so easily deceived. I hate sand, and I'll sweep the shit out of it, but when you live at the beach, getting sand in your eye is just a way of life. It's probably in our blood. I've never cried like a girl over it before; I don't even know why I assumed he'd buy it if I started now.

Defensively, Smirks asks, "What's wrong with you, Sail?"

Alarms, bells, and whistles go off in my head. My body automatically gears into fight or flight, and I want to run like a motherfucker: down the beach, out of town, out of this world.

I'd run to outer space if I could.

I should scream, "You got me pregnant, you stupid asshole!" while I choke the life out of him.

I can kill him for doing this. I can wrap my hands around his stupid throat and just choke the fucking fuck out of him. I'll be all, "I hate you," and he'll be all, "nothing." He won't be able to say anything because I'll be killing him.

But then my baby won't have a daddy.

Then my baby will be sad, and when my baby gets older, the kids in its class will tease it.

I know how that feels. I got teased all the time for not having a mom. It sucks. Kids are mean.

I'll kill those little bastards if they tease my baby.

But then my baby will be lonely because it won't have any classmates.

It's a lose-lose situation. If I don't keep this baby, I'll be sad. I'll be destroyed—I already feel it. If I do keep the baby, it'll be sad because it won't have a dad or kids to play with because I'm going to kill all of them.

_Does pregnancy turn everyone into murderers_?

There's always adoption.

Edward pushes my leg. "I asked you a fucking question."

Thankfully, with perfect timing, Felix shows up. Dressed in a pair of board shorts and a cotton tee with his work's logo on the front, he's just as tall as Edward, only slimmer. He doesn't have the mass Smirks has, or the tone. He's lanky, but he's cute—cute enough to catch James. His hair is long like his best boy's, but dark, dark brown. His facial features are small but just as sharp as Edward's, like God made them with each other in mind. Felix can pass as Asian, but he's totally American—Jewish, if that makes a difference. He lived in New York before his parents got divorced, but when that happened, Felix's mom bundled him up and brought him to Washington to live with her sister.

"Felix," James says. "You left the bicycle helmet on … Oh, wait, that's just your huge head."

She laughs, and Edward seems to relax a little. This is more James' style.

Felix obnoxiously laughs, throwing his head back before cupping his junk and saying, "Yeah, my dick's head."

Our newest arrival shakes hands with Edward, using the hand he didn't just touch his cock with, and leans down to kiss my forehead. Then he drops to his knees in front of his not-so-really girlfriend and smiles.

She scoffs. "You wish your dick's head was that big."

Felix's eyes light up. Boys are so easy, those horny fuckers. Just the thought of sex turns them into idiots. There's no exception either. Edward saw my nipple, and ten minutes later we were naked in my truck. His mind was so one-tracked, he dropped the condom twice. He couldn't even get it open without using his—

Teeth.

He used his teeth to open the condom.

Lost in my own misery, I don't even realize Felix is loving all over my girl until Edward says, "Get a room."

I snap my head in his direction—_I will fucking kill him._

But then James says, "Ugh. Not in the mood."

And to be funny, Felix says, "Come on, babe. I just bought condoms."

This is us. This is how we always mess around. We're teenagers—we're stupid and immature. But now I'm pregnant, and I cannot believe he used his freakin' teeth to open the condom. I can't believe I let him.

So then I say, "Don't use your teeth to open it. Makes holes."

Now Edward is the one snapping his head in my direction, and by the look on his face, you'd think I just murdered his dog. We don't talk about when we fucked. James does. James teases us, but we don't say a word.

I just did. For the first time.

It happened.

It _happened_.

We had sex, and now there's a really good chance I'm going to have a baby—_his_ baby.

James and Felix don't know what I'm talking about, but Edward does. He remembers. He remembers how foggy the windows were, and how sticky-sweaty it was. He remembers when I was on his lap, undressed. He remembers the condom, and when he used his teeth. Like a beaver. Like he's a fucking beaver chewing through wood.

It's latex!

Latex doesn't stand a chance against teeth.

Yeah, he remembers putting that teeth-opened condom on. He remembers when I slid down him, unaware there was a hole in it. He remembers being inside of me … when I moved my hips. I remember the way his face looked—that jaw, so sharp. I recall his eyes, so hooded. I remember how pouty his lips were, and I remember holding on to the back of the seat while I shook and circled and fucked.

Then we came. Me first, then him. He whispered "Fuck" against my throat, and I cried, "Don't stop." He spilled inside torn protection, and neither one of us knew this would happen.

I stand up. "I'm going to bed," I say, ready to explode or throw up or run … or kill.

I don't wait for anyone to say "goodbye" or "don't go," I just leave. I'll move my truck off the beach in the morning if I decide to ever get out of bed again. I don't know if my dad is home, but it's late. If he is, he's in bed—the life of a pot smoker and all.

As I open my back door, Edward catches up.

"Bella, wait," he says, following me inside.

I continue to ignore him and walk through the small kitchen. There's sand all over my legs and my feet, and as I walk over the wooden floors, I know I'm trailing it through the house.

I don't care.

I don't care about anything.

I'm so stupid.

This is so stupid.

Edward doesn't say another word as he follows. He's trailing sand, too, and if I wasn't so emotionally confused right now, I'd cuss him out or something.

Charlie's home, asleep on the couch with the TV still on. His bong's between his legs, and if I wasn't so emotionally confused right now, I'd cuss at him or something, too.

This is my life.

I just feel like cussing or something.

Edward laughs, like it's funny that my dad is a stoner. Sometimes it is, but most of the time it's really annoying and sad. Charlie smokes every night until he passes out, and I've been moving his bong or putting out his joint since I was five years old. Right now, I don't find a thing funny about that.

After I put Charlie's paraphernalia away and throw a blanket over him, I go to my room. Smirks follows, of course.

My bed doesn't have sheets on it because I didn't have a chance to get them out of the dryer before James and I took off earlier. The calendar is still on the ground, and I don't think twice about picking it up.

Fuck that calendar.

I go to my dresser and pull out a pair of pajamas from the third drawer. Edward sits on my bed.

"I feel like dirt," I say. "I'm going to take a shower."

He lies back. "I'll be here."

After undressing, I get in the shower and stand under the hot water until it runs cold. I came in here with the intention of bawling my eyes out, but that didn't happen. This is scary, but it's nothing to cry over. Not yet, anyway. I need to get my head together. I need to figure out where to go from here. When should I tell Edward? What will he say? He'll probably blame me, because Lord knows, I'm blaming him and his huge chompers.

Latex eater.

Once I'm dried off, calmed and dressed, I go back to my room. Edward's still in my bed, but he's put the purple cotton sheets back on.

I smile.

He's sitting against the headboard with one of my pillows in his lap. He's turned the lights on around my bed posts, and the TV on top of my dresser is already playing _Lilo and Stitch_, my favorite movie. The window is open, but the sheer lavender curtains are closed. Cool ocean air fills my room, making me so tired. I drop my dirty clothes on the floor and climb in, not even a little bit upset he's here.

Edward moves the pillow from his lap to the bed right beside him. When my head hits fluffy cotton, I close my eyes and sink in.

"Do you want to tell me what's wrong?" he asks. His voice is so loud in my tiny room.

I shake my head, keeping my eyelids sealed. I'm so tired, and I'm so comfortable, I don't want to talk. Not now.

Above the sheets, with hair I didn't even towel dry, water drops from my ends and soaks into my tee shirt. Wet hair sticks to my chest, face, and neck, cooling my heated skin, thanks to the breeze coming in from outside. In the distance, below the little Hawaiian girl and her alien friend, I can hear the ocean surging in and pulling away from the seashore. As I drift off, more restful than I ever remember being, I feel Edward's fingers dance across my skin. First he moves clumpy damp hair from my forehead, then my neck. I feel myself wanting to smile, but I don't—I just fall asleep.

.

.

.

I wake up alone the next day. My room is hotter than Hell, and _Lilo and Stitch_ is stuck on the menu screen, playing Hawaiian music in thirty-second sets. I'm on my back, and my arms and legs are spread open like a starfish. My bones and joints are sore and tender as if I didn't move from this position all night. I crack open my left eye, but close it when sunlight threatens to blind me. Small beads of sweat pool on my lip and dampen my hairline. I wipe them away and wonder what time it is. Then I remember.

I'm pregnant.

Awfulness receded in my sleep, but it floods back in as soon as I'm aware of my own consciousness. It's a heavy emotion that only gets weightier as I remember the last twenty-four hours: sand, Charlie, calendar, Remington, Strawberry Fanta, three positive signs … Edward.

Feeling like I'm too exposed on my back, I turn away from the open window and roll onto my side. Once I'm tucked into a pathetic ball, I no longer feel like screaming "Why me?"

But I still want to cry.

The compulsion to give in and stay in bed is so strong, I actually contemplate doing it. Fuck work, fuck friends, fuck being pregnant and responsible—I want to nail a blanket over the window and lie in the dark all day. I can lock my bedroom door, turn off my phone, and just … not exist.

Maybe that will keep this from being true.

Unfortunately, my dad forces me up. He knocks on the door once before opening. "Bella," he calls.

I open my eyes, and the first thing I see is my reflection in the mirror on my closet door.

"It's almost one," Dad says.

I stare at my image and wonder if I look different. I don't think I do—same dark blonde hair, same sun-tinted skin, same eyes, same person—but even I know it's only a matter of time before pregnancy starts to alter my appearance.

How much, though? How much of me will change? What parts won't be the same? Will I ever return to this?

Then I ask myself if I feel different, and the answer is simple: I do.

I don't feel young anymore; it's as if my freedom has been shed. Things like money and sex and family weren't so trivial before this, but now I feel the mass of their burden on my shoulders. I have all these new worries when just a couple of days ago my biggest concern was getting new trucks for my skateboard.

I have questions that need to be answered, but I don't know where to get them.

Google doesn't always have a solution.

Charlie and I have health insurance, but I've only used it a few times. I broke my wrist when I was twelve, and last year I had the flu, so Charlie took me to the pediatrician.

The fucking pediatrician.

Can I even go to the doctor without a parent? Do I go to my normal doctor, or some pregnancy specialist?

There's a small hospital in Forks; I can ask them.

If Edward and I decide not to keep the baby, then what? Where do girls go to terminate a pregnancy? How much does it cost? Does it hurt? Does it hurt the baby?

Stupid question.

If we choose adoption, who handles that? Can you put an ad in, like, the newspaper?

Is that how that's done?

Do we choose people to adopt our kid, or do they choose us? Maybe we have to stand in a lineup. Does that cost anything? Do we get paid?

I don't want money for something like that.

Charlie's deep voice pulls me away from my thoughts. "Bella, come on."

I push myself up and lean on my elbow before extending my legs and unrolling from my ball. I look away from my reflection and glance over at my father. He's fresh out of the shower; his hair is slicked back and not yet humid-curly. His beard has been brushed, and his face looks clear, like he hasn't smoked—a state he'll remedy soon.

"We were up late," I say, not completely lying. "Sorry."

Dad nods. "I just don't want you to waste the day away."

I half-smile and sit up, stretching my arms above my head. My dad looks at me funny, and I think he might have smoked that morning bowl after all. His eyes are all crooked, and he's making this face like _what the hell happened to you? _My first instinct is to drop both hands over my stomach, protecting what is mine. Panic floods through me, pumping adrenaline.

_He knows. He knows. He knows. He can tell. _

Then: "Bella, brush your mop."

He mumbles something about looking like my mother, before closing the door and leaving me alone.

The last thing on my mind is the fact that I went to bed last night with undried, unbrushed, sopping hair. I normally braid it after I get out of the shower. If I don't, my natural wave veers, and I develop a mad case of frizz. When it's frizzy, it tangles. When it tangles, it's impossible to brush.

Charlie and I learned that lesson the hard way many times as I grew up. He got more brushes stuck in my hair than I care to remember. One time, Esme had to cut one out because the bristles were so tightly wrapped around my locks. I cried all day; Charlie cried for a week.

Poor Charlie.

Poor me.

Poor us.

Once my bedroom door is closed, I finally get out of bed. My toes press against the hardwood before the balls of my feet do. The amount of sand on the floor is stupid, and I know Edward's the one who dumped it all over the house when he followed me in last night.

I forgive him, though.

He put the sheets on my bed.

As scared and shaky as I am, I'm curious, too. Unlike yesterday when I didn't want to look at myself, today I want to see. Instead of lifting my shirt up, I take it completely off. My bedtime shorts are hanging so low, my hip bones show; I realize I'm wearing a pair of Remington's boxers. As silly as it may be, wearing something of his while I'm pregnant with Edward's child feels like a betrayal—to both of them.

I wiggle my hips until the red and black flannel falls around my ankles. In nothing but a pair of white cotton underwear, I bend down and pick them up. I fold my ex-boyfriend's boxers, knowing they'll have to be returned—he won't forgive me for this, and I won't be able to keep them when he doesn't.

After they're folded, I set my favorite thing to sleep in on the nightstand and face the mirror. At first glance, nothing looks different; I'm the same. My stomach is flat, even when I turn to the side. I don't think I've gained any weight because my ribs still show more than I would like them to. My body doesn't seem to be preparing for a baby … but when I step closer and really look, I'm shocked.

My boobs are huge!

Not huge-huge. I've always had a small chest—a handful or so—but this is easily a handful and a half. They tend to swell a little during my period, which might be the reason why I haven't noticed their size, but _holy shit!_

I cup them both in the palms of my hands and they're tender and hard … and _what the fuck?_

Do my nipples look darker?

.

.

.

Boobgate totally freaked me out.

After I stared at my tits in the mirror for close to twenty minutes, like I expected them to grow right before my eyes, I called James.

She arrived a couple minutes later. When she walked in my room, I practically had my girls pressed against the glass, they had me so twisted. She came in, said "Whoa!" and walked right out.

Now she's back with a Coke and granola bar. Going by the SpongeBob SquarePants pajamas my girl is still wearing, I'll take it that she slept in like I did.

With a mouthful of granola, James says, "Next time, warn me if you're going to be playing with yourself when you call me over, okay?"

My hands are covering my areolas, but I'm still in my undies. Jamie and I have seen each other naked more times than I care to remember, so it's not a big deal. We're not shy.

When she washes her breakfast down with dark cola, she burps then says, "And someone totally tracked sand all through your house."

I roll my eyes. "It was Edward."

She grins. "How did the sleepover go? Did you get any cock?"

I shake my head when she starts to laugh. Then I drop my hands.

James points. "Boobs. Boobs. Boobs."

I slap her finger away. "This is serious," I scold.

She snorts. Her hair is still pillow-messy and flat on the side. She has sleep lines on the side of her face, and she isn't wearing a bra under her yellow tank.

She laughs. "Your tits totally jiggled when you did that."

Getting back to the point, I stand straight with my shoulders back. I figure my breasts' massive growth spurt will be automatically apparent to her, but she just stares at me. And she burps again.

"What are we doing exactly?" James asks, sounding confused.

I use both of my pointer fingers and direct her eyes toward my fat funbags. "Are you blind?" I ask.

With one arched eyebrow and a small smile on her lips, she stares at my knockers. "No, your bouncers are perfectly clear."

I push my chest out a little further. "Look closer, James."

She laughs. "Bella, I know we're close and all, but…" she trails off.

"My gagas are huge!" I finally yell. "And my nipples look darker."

She snorts. "They look pink to me."

I turn back to the mirror and stare. "Yeah, like, two shades darker."

James disagrees. "Maybe a half shade darker."

I squeeze my hottentots. "When did this happen?" I ask, not really asking.

James lies back in bed and reaches for the remote to the DVD player. She presses play and_ Lilo and Stitch _starts from the beginning.

"Umm, that's easy," she answers, twirling the remote in her hand. "It happened when you let Edward stick you with his pecker—duh."

James is obviously feeling better than she was yesterday, and since nailing a sheet over the window and hiding under the covers all day isn't an option, I need to start getting this figured out. I'm a disaster. My hair is a mess and my boobs hurt … there is a baby growing inside of me.

I open my closet and pull a flounced, turquoise and black colorblock dress from the hanger and put it on over my head. I slip my feet into a pair of flip-flops and determine I look good enough when I close the closet and see myself. My hair is still a problem, so I ask James if she'll braid it for me.

She looks at my wavy mess and says she'll try.

With a squirt bottle filled with water and another bottle of Beach Waves, I'm sitting Indian-style in the center of my bed, and James is behind me, doing her best at tackling my curls.

"How'd it go with Edward last night, Sail?" she asks, combing through my ends. James mists water over my hair; some of it lands on my shoulders and arms. I get chills.

"I didn't tell him," I reply, ashamed of myself.

"I didn't think you would," she says, spraying a little more water.

Edward is not a stranger in my home, or in my bed. We only live three houses down from each other, and our parents are lifelong friends, so it's not uncommon for us to be together until late in the night. When we were kids, we used to always have sleepovers. As we got older, that didn't change. Until my birthday, it had been harmless.

We've had people ask Edward and I if we're a couple. In the beginning, Remington was sketchy about my friendship with Smirks. Edward and I just are, but I've never felt like I'm any closer with him than I am with James or Felix—we're a group. We're close.

I'd be lying if I said last night wasn't unlike any other time we've slept in the same bed, though, because it was. For me, it was. Going by James' tone, I can tell she knows it was different, too.

"I need to see a doctor, James."

.

.

.

The closest Planned Parenthood is in Seattle.

James hangs up the phone and looks at the time. "They close at five. If we leave now, we can make it."

I had her call for me. I chickened out. Their website says they're confidential, but I'm paranoid and pregnant and my boobs hurt. I have to tell Edward … I have to tell everyone, but I need to make sure. James thinks three positive pregnancy tests are sure enough, but I need a professional opinion. I need my options laid out in front of me. I can't go to Edward unless I know where we can go from here. I just need some guidance. I need some education. I need real proof.

We're in my kitchen; it's a quarter past two. "James, it takes three hours to get there in my truck."

James, who borrowed a peach-colored sleeveless drawstring romper from me, takes my hand and leads me out the back door. "Fuck that. We'll take my mom's car."

James could only do so much with my hair. She managed to get all the tangles out, but even with the water and Beach Waves, I was a poof ball. As we trot down my front driveway onto the sidewalk, the black fedora I decided to wear in order to hide my frizz falls back. I have to hold it on as we speed walk.

We cross the street before we pass Edward's house. His bus is out front.

The walk to James' place doesn't take long, and the day isn't as warm as it was yesterday. I'm sweating, but I'm not melting, and we managed not to run into anyone we know. When we make it, I think it's best to wait outside while she gets the keys to her mother's Accord. My girl runs into the three-bedroom brick house, yells that she's taking the car, and sprints back out.

"Hopefully, she heard me," James says as she slips into the driver's seat.

When we pull out of the driveway, we have one goal in mind: make it to Seattle by five.

.

.

.

We arrive at four-forty-five.

When we walk through the door, the girl behind the counter doesn't look happy to see us. And because I've suddenly become the weak link, James takes the lead, and I follow behind like a lost little girl.

I don't want to be rude, but it's hard not to look around. The waiting room walls are covered with informative posters about the stages of pregnancy, STDs, and the female body. There's a wooden table in the center of the room stacked with different magazines, and there's another table on the far side with brochures and booklets. A TV hanging in the corner is playing the _Ricki Lake show_ on mute, and the air conditioner is blowing out freezing-cold air. There are three rows of six blue plastic chairs, all empty except for two.

A blonde-haired girl—younger than me—is sitting in the front row with a woman who I assume is her mother. Blondie is obviously a few months pregnant and she doesn't seem like she's too happy about it. Neither does her mother. I try to smile, but they ignore my effort.

I get it, I guess.

"I'm sorry, girls, but we stopped taking walk-ins at four," the front desk lady says to James.

This place is freaking me out, and that was a good enough answer. I'm about to leave when James says, "It's an emergency. We drove all the way here from La Push."

The receptionist is easily in her twenties. She has short black hair and the reddest lips I've ever seen. Her scrubs are standard blue and her nails are French tipped. I don't think she gives a shit about our drive from La Push, which makes me want to leave even more.

I'm not _that_ pregnant. I can come back next week.

"What's the issue?" the receptionist asks, looking at James like she's trying to diagnose her herself.

James looks back at me. "My friend might be pregnant."

My cheeks burn.

Receptionist Girl looks over James' shoulder at me. "Have you taken a test?" she asks.

I'm about to say yes, but James answers "No" before I have a chance. "And she's really scared," she adds, which isn't a total lie.

I'm really fucking scared.

The lady behind the counter seems to ponder over this for a second before her facial features soften, and she hands me a clipboard full of forms that need to be filled out.

Her tone is surprisingly sympathetic. "Fill them out as best as you can, okay?"

James slides her arm over my shoulders. "She will."

_Fuck. _

_My. _

_Life. _


	5. Sail Police

**I do not own Twilight. The name **_**Dani California**_** belongs to the Red Hot Chili Peppers. All respect to Stephenie Meyer and Anthony Kiedis. **

**Huge thanks to the founders of the Urban Dictionary—Kim would be lost without it. **

**I would be lost without Kim. **

**One last huge thanks to Vampshavelaws, Filia, Andrea, Catherine, Jenny, and the readers. **

**And Joy! Thanks for all of your medical advice, girl. **

**Statistics: **

_3 out of 10 American girls will get pregnant before the age of 20. _

_More than half of teen mothers never graduate from high school. _

**For more information, visit (www) dosomethingorg**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**Chapter Four**

Planned Parenthood Health History Form

Name: _Bela Swan._

No, scratch that.

Name: _Bella Swan._

Today's Date: _June 17, 2013_

Address: _blah blah blah_

Date of Birth: _May 7, 1996_

Age: _17_

Reason for visit: _There's something inside of me._

James whispers, "Tell them you're on crack."

I stop filling out the questions and look over, not even a little shocked by her suggestion. This is James, after all; her recommendations stopped being appalling when we were five.

"Why?" I ask. It's bad enough I'm pregnant; now she wants me to be hooked on crack, too?

She shrugs. "I don't know. Aren't most teen moms addicts?"

I smile, despite my insides feeling like muck. "Yeah, addicted to dong."

We high five.

Blondie and her mom were called back by a nurse right after James and I took our seats in the back row. Now, we're the only ones waiting. Not even the receptionist is behind the counter anymore. It's just us and the pregnancy prevention and preparation posters all over the walls—and I swear they're taunting me. Abstinence, contraception—Planned Parenthood builds stronger families! Of course there isn't a poster about not using your teeth to open a glow-in-the-dark condom package when you're humping one of your best friend on the front seat of a pickup truck when you're supposed to be inside with your other pals celebrating a birthday.

There should be.

Edward could be the face of that campaign.

That's the problem with pregnancy prevention programs: they're so out of touch. We all went through sex education in high school, but it was bullshit. They didn't tell me anything I didn't already know. I learned more about sex listening to Too Short than I did from the health instructor. And the school was adamant about voicing their strict abstinence policy. They didn't even hand out condoms because they thought it would be too encouraging. But we exist in an age where sex is everywhere. It can't be avoided, and it should stop being treated like it'll just go away if ignored. Sex sells. Sex is here to stay. We all want sex. It should be handled with more thought.

Besides, we live at the beach. Most of us run around half naked. Try telling a group of unclothed teenagers they can't have sex, and they'll do the exact opposite.

I know I did.

These posters are so stale. I'm not like the girls they chose to put on these advertisements, anyway, all smiling and white and suburban. My mom murdered herself, and my dad has a slight drug problem. My girl and I are a couple of Betties—we ride, we surf … we're one with fucking nature. I don't wear pastel shirts, jeans skirts, and walk my perfect-looking dog down a tree-lined street. My dad won't be _understanding_ about this. He's going to be pissed.

And guess what, motherfuckers, the shot gives you pimples and the pill makes you fat.

I'm seventeen; I don't want to be fat or have pimples.

Honestly, I'd rather be pregnant.

It's true.

My best friend and I are practically sharing a chair, and we kept our Ray-Bans on, like they'll somehow conceal us. To keep herself busy, James is flipping through a brochure left behind by another patient.

She reads, "Pregnancy intervention for urban teenagers." She laughs. "What bullshit."

I nod, returning to my paperwork. "I was just thinking the same thing."

Sexual History

Have you felt pressured or been forced to have sex with anyone: _No_.

Are you currently sexually active: _Right now?_

Last date of sex: _May 7, 2013 _

Did you use condoms or barriers with sex: _Yes, but latex apparently lost the brawl with Smirks' fangs. _

Menstrual History

When was the first day of your last menstrual period: _April 22, 2013_

Was your period normal: _Yep. Edward's the problem, not my cycle._

James, who's been looking over my shoulder, laughs. "I don't think you're taking this very seriously, Sail."

I elbow her. "Give me this at least."

Contraceptive History

Are you interested in getting birth control today: _It's too late for that shit. _

Once I have all five hundred papers filled out, I walk the clipboard, pen, and every intimate detail about my— and my family's—health history to the receptionist's desk. She's back from wherever she went, spinning around in her black office chair. She's typing away on her phone, but stops when she sees me standing here, ready to puke.

Receptionist Lady slips her phone into her desk and apologizes for not noticing my presence right away.

I hand over the documents.

"I'll need to see your ID…" She trails off, searching my information for my name. "Bella," she says when she finds it.

I open my wallet, but my ID is hard to get out of its slip. While I struggle with tight plastic, Receptionist Girl sets my paperwork on the counter so I can see. She's highlighted my name.

"We need full names, babe," she says. "What's Bella short for?"

I roll my eyes. This always happens.

I get my ID out, and I'm only sweating a little.

"It's not short for anything," I answer. I slide my identification card her way. "My name was supposed to be Isabella, but my parents were too lazy or too high to spell the whole thing out when I was born."

I point to the name on my ID.

"They didn't even put two Ls." I wait until she looks. "They spelled my name Bela."

She glances up at me.

"But I'm not going down like that," I say, showing her where I spelled my name on the health history form. "Two Ls."

Then I get mad.

"I don't even have a middle name," I tell her. "Can you believe that? They were too selfish to give me a middle name!"

Receptionist Lady takes the paperwork back to her side of the counter and slowly looks away. "You can have a seat," she says, closing the glass window between us. "You'll be called back shortly."

The same nurse that called Blondie and her mother back calls on me, too. She's dressed in the same kind of scrubs as Receptionist Girl, but this person is noticeably older and softer. She looks like she could be my mother—if my mother had been Asian with the face of an angel—and I instantly trust her.

Even though, from what I've heard, Renee couldn't be trusted.

Not even with her own life.

"Can my friend come with me?" I ask before I pass through the door. Panic, unease, and uncertainty become wedged in my throat, constricting my voice. I don't want to cry in front of this lady, but I might if I have to do this alone. I'm rattled.

She smiles sympathetically. She even touches my forearm, and it's surprisingly comforting.

"If you want her to," she says.

James rushes to my side and takes my hand. "I wasn't staying back."

I lean my head on her shoulder and whisper, "I know," as we head in.

.

.

.

There is something entirely exposing about wearing a paper gown. After I was weighed, measured, and my blood pressure was taken, the nurse told me I had to get undressed. I assumed I could keep my underwear on, but she said those had to go, too. I never wear a bra, so it figured it's was the one article of clothing allowed.

After all of that, I had to pee in a cup.

As I sit on the exam table, I hold the back of the gown closed so James doesn't get a shot of my ass. This room is obviously smaller than the waiting room, but we're surrounded by the same kinds of posters and pamphlets. Only these are more intense. There's one with a side profile of the female reproductive system, and it labels the parts: ovary, fallopian tube, cervix … all of it.

A second poster displays what a fetus looks like on a week by week basis. It's hard to look at, because the future of this baby is so up in the air, but James sees it and wonders. When she gets up from her chair in the corner to get a better look, I stay on the paper-covered exam table.

"Shit," she mumbles to herself. She slides her finger along the weeks and stops on the sixth, where she and I assume I'm at. "Your baby has a fucking head, Sail. "

It's like she can't even believe it.

Then she reads the sixth week fetal developments written under the small picture: "Nose, mouth, and ears."

"Stop," I say before she recites any more.

James takes her seat just as the doctor walks in.

To my surprise, Receptionist Girl is actually _Dr._ Receptionist Girl. She's thrown a white coat over her blue scrubs, but she's definitely the same person who took care of my intake papers. She's taller on her feet, and older looking with the coat. With Doctor in front of her name—Viola Hansen—she's powerful.

_Good for you, Dr. Receptionist Viola,_ I think to myself. _Now tell me my fate._

Instead of waiting for us to ask, Dr. V says, "We're understaffed, therefore, I have to work the front desk a couple of days a week." She sets my file on the counter so she can wash her hands in the small sink against the wall. She looks over at me. "Budget cuts," she adds.

I shrug. _Whatever._

James is surprisingly quiet throughout all of this. She's sitting quietly with her legs crossed and her hands in her lap. I keep waiting for her to spew some smart remark about government cutbacks, or the anatomical models, especially the penis, but she's silent.

"So, Bela with one L," Dr. V says as she dries off her hands. "How can I help you?"

It's an odd question, and it doesn't really seem fitting for this situation. _How can I help you_ is something you hear when you pull into a drive-thru:_ "Welcome to McDonalds. How can I help you?"_ Or when you call customer service: _"Thank you for calling blah, blah, blah. How can I help you?" _

What I need is for Dr. Viola to offer something that will make me feel better, like, _"How can I save your life?"_

Disappointed, I say what I came here for. "I think I'm pregnant."

I assume she's read my chart because Dr. Receptionist Lady doesn't look too surprised, only assured. As she leans back against the counter, I don't feel like she's judging me. There's a definite lack of shock I suspect I'll receive the next time I admit my assumed condition, but I'm sure she sees patients like me all day long. I don't even want to guess how many different girls have sat in the very spot I'm in now, admitting the same thing as me.

Instead of waiting for her to ask more questions, I come out with it: "I took three at-home pregnancy tests, and they all came up positive." My cheeks begin to warm and my eyes water. When I speak, my voice shakes. "The last time I had sex was on my seventeenth birthday. We used protection, but I think the condom was torn."

She nods and crosses her arms over her chest. "You weren't on any kind of contraceptive?" she asks.

I shake my head.

"All right," Dr. Receptionist Lady says. She opens a small drawer. "Since you've already taken three tests with positive results, chances are they're probably accurate. But for our own piece of mind, we had you take another one. That way we'll know for sure, and then we can start weeding through our options."

"Okay," I answer nervously, lying back.

James shifts in her seat.

Dr. Viola Hansen turns around, slipping a pair of white latex gloves over her hands. "I'm going to do an abdominal exam, okay?"

I quickly nod.

I can feel my heartbeat in my teeth. My hands and knees are trembling—I'm afraid. Hesitant to make any sudden movements, I stay still. The paper beneath my back and bottom crinkles under my weight. My paper gown rips a little at the hem. My arms are laid at my sides, and my ankles are together at the end of the examination table. With nowhere to really look, I stare at the ceiling. Warm tears fall from the corner of my eyes, down my temples, and into my hair.

When the doctor appears above me, she smiles sweetly. "You're going to be okay," she says.

I cry a little more.

Then James is above me, too. She smiles big, pushing my long bangs from my forehead. "Hey, girl," she greets.

I smile. "Hi."

James kisses my forehead before moving to my side and taking my hand.

As Dr. Viola explains that she's going to lift my gown and press on my stomach, James squeezes my hand. Like yesterday at the Save Mart, my best friend looks just as afraid as I am. She's hanging on to every word that passes the doctor's lips, and as Dr. V begins to lift my gown, James asks, "What's the point? What are you looking for?"

Receptionist Lady Doctor answers, "I'll be looking for any scarring around the stomach, checking for any abdominal pain"—she looks at me—"I'll just be searching for any signs of pregnancy."

"So she's pregnant?" James asks.

Dr. Viola sighs softly. "I'll be able to let you know for sure as soon as the nurse brings in the results. Until then, I can do this."

"Well, if you feel anything, can't you just tell us?" James questions.

With my best girl on my left and the doctor on my right, I look back and forth between the two of them. I know I should probably be the one asking all the questions—this is, after all, my body and my potential baby they're discussing—but I'm perfectly content in allowing James the opportunity to drill the doc. Once I'm calm, I'll have my chance.

I might be going to the doctor's a lot in the next nine months, anyway.

"I would prefer to wait for the results," Dr. V answers.

"Put us out of our misery," James insists, leaning a little forward. She scoffs.

Dr. Viola leans forward, too. "What about you?" she asks. "Are you on birth control?"

James backs up. "No. I'm a virgin."

Now I'm the one scoffing.

Dr. V waits for James to ask more questions, but when she doesn't, she continues the exam. Thankfully, she doesn't lift the gown completely, which would have exposed my nakedness and vulnerability to my friend; she raises it only enough to reach under with her right hand. With the tips of her fingers, she applies pressure all around my stomach area. Doctor asks me if I feel any tenderness or pain.

I softly whisper, "No."

She moves her hand down lower, at my pubic line. I breathe out.

"What about here?" she asks.

When I don't answer, she applies more pressure, using what feels like her entire right hand. "Bella?"

With my bottom lip between my teeth, I nod. "It's … tender," I answer.

She nods and removes her hand. After she's straightened my gown, she tells me I can sit up. "I'm going to ask you a few more questions before we move forward."

"Okay."

She starts: "Have you experienced any cramps, spotting, or nausea since your last missed period?"

I look down at my bare feet. They hang off the edge of the table. "Cramping, yes. Spotting, yes. Nausea, no."

Dr. V jots a few things down before asking, "Any lower backache, change in your breasts, or food aversions?"

"Umm … backache, no. Breast changes, yes." I look up at her. "I'm still eating the same."

"Weight gain?"

I shrug. "I'm not sure."

"Since you've become sexually active, have you contracted any STDs?"

My head snaps up. "No," I answer with a little more bite than I should.

She writes more down in my file. "Have you ever had a Pap smear?"

I shake my head. "No."

"When was your last blood test?"

I take a moment to think. "When I was a kid, I guess."

Dr. V nods and closes my file. "Okay, Bella. Sit tight. I'll be right back."

When she leaves, I fall back flat against the bed. I have an overwhelming need to explain myself to Viola Hansen. I can only imagine the different type of people she treats everyday: poor, rich, black, white—everyone in-between. I wonder how many stories she hears—how many excuses and defenses. How many stomachs has she pressed on before mine? How many girls has she had to look at and tell them that they're pregnant? How many of those could have been avoided with a little bit of responsibility?

How many of those does she end … or save?

She's probably been in and out of this room millions of times, treating one fuck-up after another.

I don't want to be that.

I don't want to be another one of those statistics they have printed in those pamphlets James was reading earlier.

I want to explain that I haven't had a Pap smear because I don't have a mother around to tell me I need one. I haven't had a blood test because my dad only takes me to the doctor if I'm near death. I only had sex at sixteen because I felt like Remington wanted to.

I'm pregnant because Edward's front teeth are part razor.

This is obviously everyone else's fault, not mine. I'm normal.

I'm responsible.

I'm sorry.

Five minutes later, Dr. Receptionist walks back into the room with my file and another sheet of paper. I sit up and straighten myself out. Dr. V claims her spot along the counter again. She sets my folder down but keeps the other paper in her hand.

"I have the results, Bella."

It's like a shot to the heart, literally—I'm pretty sure my heart stops beating. Dying would be much easier than destroying the lives of everyone around me with another positive result. At least if I croak now, I'll be remembered as that cool surfer chick and not the seventeen-year-old teen mom.

I'll go out with a little bit of pride intact.

It would suck because I'd be dead … but my life might be ending, anyway.

Dr. V pushes away from the counter and holds the paper with my result in both hands. "Like I told you before, Bella, you've already taken three—"

I interrupt her. "Can you just tell me what it says, please?"

As it turns out, my heart never stopped beating. _Nope_. It's very much working, pounding from the inside of my fucking throat.

My lungs on the other hand…

"It's positive, Bela with one L."

Dr. V's crack at a joke wasn't very funny. And I really wish I was one of those people who fainted every time they heard life-altering news. It would be so cool to just check out right now. It would be even better if I woke up with James and Dr. V above me again, only to have Dr. V tell me she was kidding.

"Just kidding," she would say. "You're not pregnant. Your boobs are growing because you're awesome, and you've missed a period because God has decided you're too cool for the agony of a menstrual cycle. I called him," she would say. "I have God on speed dial."

But none of that happens. Dr. V just moves on to the next set of questions. This time they involve every single detail of my life since I last had sex.

I answer them as best I can: "No, I've only had one partner in the last four months. Yeah, he has a girlfriend. No, I don't know if they have sex, but … you know. Yes, I'm sure. One. I've only been with one person. Edward. His name is Edward."

After the rapid-fire questioning is over, Dr. V leans against the wall and sighs. "Going by the information you've given me, Bella, I'd say you're between six and eight weeks pregnant. You're estimated due date is late January. Probably around the twenty-eighth."

I hide my face in my hands. "This isn't happening."

"You have options. There are a few things you can do…" she trails off. "Have you thought about this at all?"

I shake my head and try to gather my thoughts. "It's … it's only been a couple of days. I didn't even realize I'd missed my period."

James is suddenly at my side. She puts her right arm over my shoulders and tilts her head against mine.

Dr. V continues. "I suggest you take a couple of days to think about this, but—"

I look right at her and say, "I can't have a baby."

She nods. "Abortion is an option. We offer the services here, two Thursdays a month. In the state of Washington, minors don't have to have a parent's consent to go through with the procedure, but—"

I interrupt her again. "I can't tell my dad."

There are a few silent moments before she says, "You don't have to."

.

.

.

After I was dressed, Dr. Viola Hansen wrote me a prescription for prenatal vitamins, but not before she encouraged me to make up my mind sooner rather than later.

"You don't want to wait too long on things like this, Bella. As time goes by, it'll only become more difficult."

I had nothing to say.

James and I have been back in the car for thirty minutes. There was some traffic leaving Seattle, so we're not as close to home as I wish we were. With my feet up on the seat, I have my arms around my knees. My head is against the window. The radio is quietly playing, and my best girl is on her phone, talking to Felix. When he asked where we were, she told him we went shopping.

The sun is already beginning to set, but I keep my sunglasses on anyway. Unlike yesterday when I couldn't cry at all, tonight I can't stop.

I thought finding out I was pregnant would be the worst thing to ever happen to me. Turns out I was dead wrong.

Deciding if the baby should be born or not is.

I wipe my nose with the back of my hand. In my peripheral vision, I see James look over at me.

"Felix, let me call you back," she says into the phone. After she hangs up, my girl reaches over and wipes away one of my tears with her pointer finger. "Don't cry, Sail."

"I don't know what to do," I confess.

The worst part of having to decide something like this: I can feel it. I can feel my baby. It's like my body and soul just know it's there. I'm amazed I wasn't aware as soon as it happened, because now I cannot ignore its presence.

James places both hands on the wheel. "I think you need to talk to Smirks before you decide anything."

"And then what?" I ask.

She looks over at me again. Her short hair is slicked into a faux hawk. James reaches over and tilts my fedora off of my head. "And then he can help you decide."

I slip my feet from the seat and sit straight. I leave my hat in the backseat where it's fallen. "He's going to be so mad."

Never one to sugarcoat anything, James says, "Probably, but if it weren't for Edward Scissormouth, this wouldn't be happening."

It's hard not to laugh.

Instead of crying, we spend the rest of the drive making up names for Smirks and his knives for teeth.

It's almost enough to distract me from the fact that my baby has a nose, mouth, and ears.

.

.

.

Pulling off of the highway when we reach La Push is the sweetest kind of relief. The sun is down, and my glasses are off. James has done a well enough job keeping me preoccupied, and I haven't cried since she called Edward's mouth a judging vagina forty minutes ago.

As she drives through town, there are still people out on the streets. It's the beginning of summer, and the weather is beautiful. I roll down the window and let the nighttime ocean breeze cool my cry-swollen face. The smells of dinner being cooked and sunblock lingers in the air. A group of kids ride by on their skateboards, and a couple of girls follow behind on their bikes. It reminds me of how James, Edward, Felix, and I used to be when we were eleven and twelve.

When James stops at one of the four streetlights we have around here, we're the first car before the crosswalk. A few people stroll across: a man with a dog, and a woman with her kids. James takes the time to roll down her window and turn up the music. As Janis screams _baby, baby, baby!_ through the speakers, I sing along, and James taps her hands on the steering wheel. Mid-chorus, a black Toyota Tacoma pulls up beside James' mom's Accord. Two boys around our age, with their shirts off and their hats on backward, look over and smile. I keep singing and roll my eyes, but James fucks around.

We don't know them, so she asks, "Where are you guys from?"

I look over my shoulder and see their surfboards in the vehicle's bed: tourists.

"Oregon," the one on the passenger side answers. "What about you?"

James snorts. "Wanna race?"

I shake my head and laugh. The light's turned green, but there's no one behind us. We're in no hurry.

They boys laugh, like we're joking. "What? No way," the one driving says.

"Oh, come on!" James flirts. "Rev it up."

They like us. I can tell. We're pretty and we're _crazy_, and they want to get some pussy while they're on vacation. We deal with this shit every summer—stupid traveler kids looking for summer love. Little do they know one of the two girls they're laughing with is pregnant, and the other has a boyfriend-not-boyfriend, and his Asian-not-Asian ass would murder them if he was around.

The driver revs the engine, as if his Toyota offers something other than polluted air. "You really want to race?" he asks, like he's bad.

"Yeah!" James calls.

I sit forward and lean over James. They can see me fully now, and their eyes light up.

I smirk before I ask, "You call that a pickup truck?"

This gets the driver's attention. How dare I question his manly truck! He sits up and puts his hands on the wheel. "Let's race."

I fall back into my seat and roll my eyes.

"Idiots," James mumbles, acting like she actually plans on competing with these guys.

Tacoma's driver starts revving the engine again. James smiles and gives the thumbs up like it's making her all hot.

When the light turns green again, the Toyota speeds away.

James flips her blinker on and turns right. "They get more and more pathetic every year."

I laugh. "No kidding."

When we reach the street Edward and I live on, my heart rate picks back up. I reach back for my hat and put it on my head. I wipe my face tear-free before I pull down the visor and look at my reflection in the tiny mirror. I definitely look like I've been crying, but I'll just tell anyone who might ask that I got a sunburn while we were walking the Seattle streets today … shopping.

The closer we get to the end of the street, the more I can make out. With the visor back in place, I scope out Edward's van in front of his house. His garage door is up and the lights are on. He's probably working on his bus.

"Drop me off at Edward's, James," I tell my friend.

She slows down. "Wait … you want to tell him tonight?"

I nod. "I have to get this figured out."

The only problem is, when James parks in front of the Cullen home, Smirks isn't alone; Dani's with him. Her bleach blonde hair is up in a messy bun. She's wearing a pair of cut-off shorts and a pink tank top. The girl who probably won't be my friend after this is sitting in a lawn chair beside Edward's Volkswagen. She's sippin' on a Kool-Aid pouch and eating sunflower seeds.

My baby daddy is on one knee, wiping down his rims.

I'm about to scream, "Drive!" when Edward looks up.

I sink into my seat, trying to hide.

"Shit, shit, shit," James chants. "He's coming, Sail."

Instead of screaming, I whisper-yell, "Drive, James. Fucking drive away."

"Too late," she hisses. "Act normal. Act like you're not pregnant."

I hit her.

Edward appears in my window.

He has to look down on me because I'm sunk low in my seat.

Smirks leans in. "You disappeared again."

I sit up. "I … ugh … dropped my—"

James finishes my sentence. "Hat. She dropped her hat."

Edward doesn't have a shirt on; his skin smells like motor oil and Armor All. He rests his forearms on the door so his hands are inside the car. They're greasy and cracked and all boy.

I remember what they felt like running down my sides.

My cheeks burn.

"Are you crying?" he asks, tilting my chin up. His dark grey eyes search my face. "Your face is all red."

I pull away before he sees too much in my expression. "No," I answer like his observation is the dumbest thing ever. "I got a sunburn."

I mess with the car stereo to keep my hands busy, silently wishing for my fedora to drop completely over my face so Edward can't look at me anymore. I don't even know why he cares. Why can't he just be a typical boy and not notice things like red faces and swollen eyes?

"Since when do you shop?" he asks.

I kind of look over at him, making sure not to give him my entire face. He's smirking, but there's a seriousness in his appearance. Maybe he knows. Maybe he feels it, too. The life in my belly is half his.

James answers for me. "Since we were born with a vagina between our legs. Girls shop, Smirks." She kind of makes a weird face, as if what she's about to say is actually painful. "We like shoes and … those hand things."

Edward's really smirking now. "Those hand things?" he questions.

She nods. "Yeah, those purse things."

Edward drops his eyes on me. "What the fuck is up, Sail?"

I fall back into my seat and cross my arms over my chest. I look up at him, hoping the rim of my hat is covering the lies on my face. "Nothing. There was a sale at … The Pottery Barn."

Edward pushes himself away from the car. "You guys are fucking liars."

Appalled, I sit up as he walks away and yell, "You're not my dad, Smirks!" out the window.

He turns and flips me the bird.

It's really stupid that I notice he looks pretty nice in a pair of jeans covered in oil and antifreeze. Slim dark denim hangs low on his hips, and his red and black plaid boxers show underneath. The tan boots on his feet are unlaced and just as dirty as his pants.

_Yeah, Smirks is hot. _

"Hey!" James yells. "The Pottery Barn is awesome."

Edward laughs obnoxiously, and I take back thoughts about Smirks being hot—he's a dickface.

"Yeah, what do they even sell there?" he asks. His face is all too knowing.

James scoffs. "Pottery … and barns."

Edward shakes his head. The right side of his lips are tilted up. "You're an idiot."

"And you're not the fucking Sail Police!" James screams.

James puts the car into drive so we can leave, and Edward turns around so he can walk away, but then Dani yells out, "Wait," and we all do.

She has her board in one hand and a red Kool-Aid pouch in the other. "Do you guys want to skate?"

James, Edward, and I all look at each other. I shrug. "Sure."

.

.

.

Once we're back at my place, James and I change out of our dresses into bikinis and hoodies. I swap flip-flops for a pair of red Vans, but decide to keep the fedora on. Since James' skateboard is at her house, once she's out of the romper she borrowed from me earlier, she runs down the hall to Charlie's room to ask if she can use his longboard.

I meet her by the front door, ready to be out of this place.

Charlie comes out of the hallway with her. He's in a pair of dark blue board shorts and a white tee. His crazy hair is crazy like usual, and his beard needs to be trimmed. My father's eyes are high-hooded and glazed. I can smell what he was doing on his clothes.

I open the front door and step out before he notices my face, like Edward did. "Bye, Dad," I mumble.

James follows right behind me.

I drop my board on four wheels and roll down the walkway to the sidewalk.

"Where're you off to, Sail?" Charlie asks.

James answers, moving to the street on my father's board. "Where the wild things go!"

"Not too late, Bella," he calls out.

I wave, already halfway to Edward's.

While we were getting dressed, Edward called Felix, and Dani called Alice and Jasper. On the walk over, Felix ran into Remington, who was just getting off work. He asked him if he wanted to skate, too.

"I told him you'd be here," Felix says.

"Thanks," I mumble. I'm sitting on my board, rolling back and forth, ready to go.

Thankfully, when we rode onto Edward's driveway, Alice didn't mention our late afternoon run-in yesterday. The last thing I want is for Edward to start questioning me about shopping at Save Mart in Port Angeles.

While we wait for Remington to show up, we're all sitting around the bus. Edward's in the lawn chair Dani was in earlier, and he's watching his girl twirl around on her board. Jasper is sitting on the concrete near the rear bumper, and Alice is between his knees, talking on her phone. Felix ran into the house for a bottle of water, and James is beside me.

"Do you think you can ride?" she asks.

"Yeah," I whisper. "I'll be fine."

"Don't fall," she says.

I look over at her. "I won't, James."

Right at that moment, Remington rolls up. He's a busboy at the diner on the beach, so when he stops beside me and leans down to kiss the top of my head, he smells like hamburgers.

To a pregnant chick, it smells much better than motor oil and Armor All.

I want to eat him.

Or I just want to eat.

Since Remi lives in Forks, he can never go home and change like the rest of us can. But he's learned his lesson over the years, and after having to skate in his work uniform more than once, he leaves an extra pair of clothes in his truck. My ex-boyfriend used to park his Bronco in front of my house, but when we broke up, I told him to move his hunk of shit. He parks at the beach parking lot now.

Even though he's out of the Hawaiian button up they force him to wear at Dinner by the Sea, I can still smell grilled chicken and french fries all over him.

I stand and hug him just so I can get closer.

"Hey, babe," he whispers into my ear.

I hide my face in his neck, but only because he smells so freaking good.

He has a backpack on, and I bet it's filled with goods. The owners of the diner always let the employees take home leftovers. Remington used to bring them by the house when we were together, but I was never very interested in it then. Now, though…

"Do you have any food?" I ask as I try to sneak into his Jansport.

He laughs. "You hungry, girl?"

"Starving," I answer.

James coughs, clearing her throat. I look down at her. Her eyes are big, like they're saying, "too obvious!"

Remington takes off his backpack, unzips it, and offers me the plain hamburger and side of cold fries he was so selfishly hoarding for himself.

I grab them without a thank you and practically shove it all in my mouth at once. I moan and smile and chew with my mouth open. I'm being super dramatic, but this is the best burger I've had ever. Ex-boyfriend thinks it's funny, and best friend asks for a bite, but I hit her hand away.

"Get your own food," I tell her, taking another mouthful.

From across the driveway, baby daddy isn't so convinced.

He asks again, "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

_Crap. _


	6. Off With His Head

**I do not own Twilight. Dani California belongs to the Red Hot Chili Peppers. And yeah, I was a teen mom. Nineteen. Twins. **

**Huge thanks to Vampshavelaws, Filia, Andrea, Catherine, and Jenny. Without them dickface would still be two words. **

**Obviously I've taken a few liberties with the setting. I hope that's okay. And to the girl who suggested "Cruise," you've read my mind. **

**Thanks for reading. **

**Statistics:**

_Less than two percent of teen moms will earn a college degree by age thirty. _

_Sexually active teens not using contraceptive have a ninety percent chance of becoming pregnant in a year._

**.**

**.**

**.**

**Chapter Five**

Edward's outburst sets a _what-crawled-between-his-teeth-and-ripped _damper on the otherwise easy mood between friends. Dani halts her twirl, James doesn't reach for my half-eaten hamburger, and I stop chewing. Alice, Felix, Jasper, and Remington all sort of look at me, wondering what the hell is going on.

In the background of our gawky silence, crickets cricket, beach waves wave, and the TV sounds from the Cullen home. While Esme and Carlisle sit inside watching _Arrested Development_, I stare at their only kid with a mouthful of all-beef patty, brainstorming ways I can murder him in his sleep during his next siesta. A pillow over the face seems like the logical choice—I can just smother the mother fuck out of him—but I'm aiming toward painful. Like slicing off his wicked dick and shoving it down his throat. As he struggles to breathe, I'll say something along the lines of, "What the fuck is wrong with _you_?"

My baby needs a father, though. He must live.

For now.

I swallow the bite that's been in my mouth for way too long and say, "I can't eat?"

The corner of Smirks' mouth lifts. He changed out of his oily jeans and boots while James and I were changing out of our dresses. He's in a pair of brown cut-off Levi's now, and a pair of all-black Vans that have seen much better days. Edward's black hat is on backwards, but it's still low on his head. The boy I've known since birth isn't wearing a shirt, and there's a patch of skin on his left shoulder that's lighter than the rest—one of the many scars he has from one of the many falls he's taken, both on and off the water.

His forearms are on his knees, and his knees are parted just enough for me to see his stomach. A little bit lanky, a little bit lean, a whole lotta bit toned and tanned and humid-sweaty. Edward looks different to me, older. And like his cracked and calloused hands, I remember what that lanky, lean, toned-tanned, and humid-sweaty stomach felt like pressed on mine. I rubbed my thumb along the scar on his shoulder. I rubbed my whole hand over it. I think I kissed it.

I did.

I remember.

Amid my stare-off with Smirks, Remington nudges my side with his elbow. "Let it go," he says lowly. He's slipping his backpack over his shoulders, over the drama, ready to ride.

I don't break eye contact from Edward, though. I'm having too much fun planning his hypothetical demise. But if this was a legit stare-off—no blinking, no smiling, no moving—I win. After another moment of locked-eyeness, Edward winks and looks away first, smirking.

The happiness I feel over my staring contest victory is short lived. Edward stands to his feet and wipes his hands on the front of his shorts, with the most condescending smirk on his lips, and he knows he's getting the last word.

I groan in frustration. "You're such a jerk."

He smiles higher, saying without words, "I know you are, but what am I?" like he used to when we were kids.

Everyone else takes Edward's cue and kicks their boards out, ready to roll. I don't move, even when James says, "Come on, Sail."

Edward moves past me, riding between Remington and I … still smirking.

"Stop smiling at me!" I yell like a two-year-old. I'm four seconds away from stomping my foot and having a Queen of Hearts style fit—_off with his head!_

Edward kicks and pushes himself on four wheels back up the driveway and stops in front of me, dropping the smirk. "You think I don't know you?" he asks. Smirks steps off his skateboard and holds it in place between his shoes.

He's still oil and engine and beach and more-man-than-boy scented.

For the second time tonight, I defiantly say, "You're not my dad."

If we were alone, I'd choose now to drop the bomb and admit, "But you are_ a_ dad."

Perfect timing is perfect, after all.

Edward searches my face for a half-moment before I watch acceptance cross his grey eyes. When the corner of his mouth rises, it's not so smug this time; it's evil, but it's all him. It's comforting. And I wish I could grab his face between my hands. I'd press our foreheads together and speak softly. I'd whisper, "Edward, this is happening. This is what we did. Fix it for me, like you fix everything else."

Because he's always been my fixer.

If I have a flat tire, Smirks changes it for me. If I fall, he picks me up. If I can't sleep, he slips me a pill. When I need help with my algebra homework, he does his best to put negative and fractional components into terms I can understand. If I tell him I'm hungry, he feeds me. If I'm bored, he entertains. When I'm sad, Edward makes me happy.

The first time Remington and I broke up, Smirks punched him in the mouth for breaking my heart. He brought me back a piece of Ex-boyfriend's bloody tooth, too, and said, "So you know I was thinking of you."

Of course, I was a girl in love—with Remington—so I got mad. But it was nice to know Edward cared.

When I screamed at Edward to "Fix it," he did, and Remi and I got back together the next day.

When James, Edward, and I were growing up, we didn't get that our parents were doing things wrong. They were kids raising kids, too self-involved to ever slow down and be accountable for the three lives they brought into the world after they thought it would be cool to get married at eighteen. By the time we became aware that we had to take care of ourselves, my mom was already gone, but I can't imagine things were much different when she was alive. We remember how much they partied, and we remember the fights and the booze and the drugs, but when you're little, you don't _really_ comprehend what it all means. We know now they were irresponsible maniacs, but back then, they were heroes.

We never had bedtimes. We were never told no. We ran the streets at five years old. We didn't have rules. There was no structure. Undisciplined. Unruly. Lords of Flies. We were wild things.

While our role models were using drugs and running reckless, living out their youth, we were right there with them, dirty faced and sunburnt, handing them beers. We were dragged from party to party. We spent entire days and nights on the beach. That's how the sleepovers started. Edward, James, and I would fall asleep wherever we were, curled up and cuddled.

Our parents were hungover most mornings. They always slept until late afternoon, so when we woke up—after our little toes stepped over the passed out bodies of their mothers and our fathers—my fixer and I would look for breakfast. If we were lucky, we found sugary cereal, and Edward would pour it for me.

We were nine when our life-givers grew up and got their shit together. They literally became great parents overnight—Charlie did his best. My dad opened up the ride shop, and the Cullens opened up Munchies. There were suddenly bedtimes and sunblock and rules. But by then, though, we'd already raised ourselves.

Edward taught me how to tie my shoes when he barely knew how to tie his own. The very first time I realized I didn't have a mother, he's who I went to. At eleven, it's Edward who went screaming to Esme and Riley, "Bella's girl parts are bleeding!"

He thought I was dying.

I did too, until the only mothers I ever knew showed up with a change of clothes and these funny things called Tampax.

It's always been him. And James. But he's always been kind of … special.

Edward laughs. "Oh, I know what's wrong."

I take another bite of my hamburger and stare at him with suspicious eyes, waiting for whatever smartass comment is about to come out of his so evilly curved mouth.

He doesn't disappoint. "You're on the rag."

Everyone starts to laugh.

Everyone but James and me.

"You're going to wish she was on her fucking—" James stops when she notices me drilling a hole through her head with my gaze.

Then I shove my hamburger in Edward's face.

I laugh and point. "Ha!"

It's only meat and bun, so nothing but grease smears on his face, but it's the coolest thing I've done in two days. And he's taken completely by surprise, which makes it even better. All of our friends are laughing at him now. Especially James and I—we high five.

Smirks wipes oil from his chin with his left hand, smirking again. It's not a "last word" smirk; it's a "get even" one.

Before I have a chance to jump on my board and go, Edward picks me up, throws me over his shoulder, and jumps on his own skateboard.

I usually wouldn't mind, but I have this whole pregnancy thing going on, so…

If I kick and scream, he's more likely to drop me. As calmly as I can, I very nicely ask, "Please put me the fuck down."

He laughs. Then he smacks my ass.

I lose my hat.

Edward rides in the direction of the beach. The flesh-shredding, possibly baby-killing, road passes under his wheels. Every rock and every crack is a threat I've never paid much attention to until now.

Whoever put this road here is an asshole.

"Please," I whine.

Smirks rides up a curb onto the sidewalk, which runs parallel with the seashore. More cracks and more rocks and more threats. I can hear and feel him breathing heavily. I'm not _that_ heavy, but I'm not necessarily light either. I think about holding on—maybe I can shift my weight, wrap my legs around him, and cling for dear life. When I move my legs, though, Edward's board swerves. I scream. He laughs a little more.

"It's not funny!" I shriek.

Our friends aren't too far behind us. James is ahead of the group, yelling, "Put her down!" She has my board under her arm.

But Edward keeps rolling, past Charlie's, past Munchies, past Dinner by the Sea. He rides beyond the restrooms and the showers, and he rolls past the old, unused dock on the right. Since asking didn't work, and because Edward's pretending he doesn't hear James begging for my immediate release, I decide to play dead. If he thinks I'm unconscious, or if he thinks he accidently killed me, maybe he'll stop so I can get on my feet again. Not to mention his shoulder is jammed into my stomach. He's smashing our baby and he doesn't even know it.

And I'm not telling him now.

That's an _on flat ground _kind of conversation.

I let go of all of the tension in my body. I go slack, allowing my arms and legs to hang.

When Edward realizes I'm not holding on, he laughs and grips me tighter. "I can't believe you smashed your hamburger in my face," he says.

Right after, I hear James wail, "I told you to let her down!"

I look up, ready to give her some kind of signal that I have this under control. But I watch her arm go back, and then I watch it swing forward.

That's when I see the tangerine-sized beach rock.

I kind of gargle, scream, and shriek, "No!"

But it's too late. The rock goes up, it sails down, and then it hits the ground, rolls forward, and becomes wedged under the rear right wheel of Edward's skateboard.

I've fallen more times than I can even count. Road rash, bruises, busted lips and black eyes; scrapes, burns, fractures and contusions are all a part of the life we live on our boards and in the water. They're like trophies. We wear our scars with pride. But I've never been so afraid to hit the ground as I am now.

As soon as the rock stops the wheels from rolling, Edward and I are jerked forward. Smirks isn't even allowed the opportunity to save us; we just fly.

My entire body tenses up, and my teeth clamp down. I close my eyes and roll into the best ball I can, which includes hugging the ever lovin' shit out of Edward's head. This falling boy is smart enough to clutch on to my legs, and he tries to turn so we land on his back and not mine, but our decline is faster than our spin.

Right before we collide with the ground, I think to myself, _we're going to kill this baby before we even decide if we want to kill this baby. _

My right elbow hits sandy concrete first. Then the rest of my arm, my hip, my right leg, and finally my head. As we skid down the sidewalk, Edward and I do a pretty good job of staying together. Gravity guides our motions and direction, but when we roll, we roll together. And as we slide, we slide clutching onto the other.

My adrenaline's pumping so hard, I don't actually feel my skin being rubbed raw from my legs, but I know it's happening. I'm aware of how hard my head hits the ground, even if I don't sense the pain yet. My sweater starts to lift, exposing my lower back and sides. Thankfully, we're slowing down and no longer sliding, but halting.

When Edward and I come to a complete stop, twenty feet from where we fell, holding on to each other, not breathing at all, I fall over completely onto my back. A split second later, every painful inch of my wounded body demands to be felt. I kind of scream.

I sit up just as James comes running over. She drops in front of me, asking over and over, "Are you okay? Holy shit, Sail, is everything okay?"

My head is pounding, my sweater is torn, my knees are bleeding, and my Vans are unlaced. I have scrapes and cuts on my hand and all over my legs. There's sand in my hair and in my mouth and eyes. Edward's still on his back beside me, breathing hard enough for the both of us. He wasn't wearing a shirt, so he has it the worst. But he's not moving. His bloody-knuckled hand is on his chest, and his eyes are looking up.

Until they're looking at me.

"You bastard!" I cry. I try to kick him, but I miss.

James is patting my entire body. "Is anything broken? Are you broken? Is it broken?"

Edward sits up. His entire back is scratched and bleeding, but he doesn't acknowledge it. He rubs his face in the palms of his hands before he turns to me. "Shit, Sail. I'm sorry, girl."

And it's no big deal. Because this shouldn't be a huge deal.

We fall.

We bruise.

We bleed.

We're fucking seventeen years old.

This is our life.

My entire body hurts, and I'm afraid to move. My first instinct is to cover my stomach with my hands and demand to be taken to the emergency room, but I can't. I have to act normal. I have to act like this is just another fall. Like it's not a big deal, when in fact, it's the hugest deal.

I reach for James. "Help me up."

Edward stands as James pulls me to my feet. "Are you okay?" he asks, worried.

I notice he's lost his hat, too.

After a few stiff steps, the muscles in my calves relax a little, making it easier to walk. Blood drips down my shins, into my shoes. I pull down my hoodie and lift up my hood, covering my sand-filled hair. I walk past Alice, Jasper, and Dani. James kind of holds on to my elbow. I don't know where he comes from, but Remington's suddenly at my side.

"Did you fall that hard?" he asks, like he's really surprised I'm acting so injured after that little fall.

I ignore him. "Take me home, James."

So she does.

A few paces in front of where our friends are still gathered, obviously questioning what the hell is going on with me … again, I hear Edward call out, "Really, Sail?"

I lift up my hand, stick up my middle finger, and keep walking.

.

.

.

Back at the house, my best girl and I are locked in the steam-filled bathroom, inspecting my injuries.

"Nothing too bad," she says, dabbing my bleeding knee with an old, faded blue towel.

I'm sitting on the toilet, and James is on her knees, making sure she doesn't miss a single scratch. Of course, the most important question has yet to leave her lips: How's the baby? But I haven't said anything about it either. Our walk back from the beach was unhurried and quiet. After walking through the front door, James did me a solid and took the unlit joint out from between Charlie's lips and threw a blanket over him. She brought me to the bathroom, locked the door, turned on the shower, and now she's playing nurse. To me. Not to the life that lives inside of me. Just me.

Besides the burning pain in the areas where I used to have skin, I feel fine. I mean, nothing seems wrong.

James stands to her feet. "Lift," she orders.

I lift my arms so she can pull the sweater from my body. She then reaches for my shoes, and I let her take my Vans off one at a time. A ton of sand falls from them, but I don't have enough energy in me to care. Even when I stand and feel little particles under my toes, I don't give a shit. James unlaces one of the ties of my bikini bottoms, while I reach back and unhook my top. Once I'm completely undressed, I step under hot water and melt.

I sweep my fingers through my hair at the scalp, allowing water to pour through my blonde locks. More sand from my hair cascades down my bare body, pooling around my feet before it goes down the drain.

"I'll be in your room," James says before she leaves.

She turns off the light, and the small automatic nightlight in the electric socket powers on. The pale orange light is exactly what I need. It hides and calms me immediately. And finally, alone in the dark, I press my hand over my lower stomach.

Some tiny part of me screams that I love it already. The majority just repeats how ashamed I am of myself.

Tonight just goes to show how I'm not in any condition or mental space to be a mother. I shoved a hamburger in my friend's face after we had an unofficial staring contest, and then we fell off of his skateboard.

But this is happening, and I don't one hundred percent feel like I don't want the unborn complication. I ninety-nine point nine percent know it's wrong, but that point one percent of uncertainty is enough for me to second-guess everything. It's enough to make me consider ruining my life and Edward's.

It's a kid. My kid. Our kid.

Can I really just get rid of it?

I've never questioned my moral standpoint on abortion before. It was never relevant. Charlie and I are not exactly religious, but I have faith, and I know the church's opinion: pro-life. We studied _Roe v. Wade_ in school a little; a lot of people fought really hard so women have the right to choose. And we should have this right. It's my body, my guilt … my consequence. But I wasn't raped or molested or forced. I just wasn't careful enough. I'm a healthy girl who's not incapable of being a mother. I just don't want to be one yet.

Does that still give me the right to pick so freely between life and death for a fetus who obviously didn't ask for this?

I don't even have to tell Charlie.

The state of Washington will allow me to terminate my pregnancy without notifying my legal guardian.

That's a huge responsibility.

That's a hefty burden to carry. Because really, I don't even have to tell Edward.

James knows, but she would never say a word. This could easily be our secret, and we'd take it to the grave. My life could continue like it is: fun, wild, brave. I might be upset, but the guilt would eventually subside. Would I even remember in a year? In two years? In five, ten, fifteen? When I decide I'm ready for kids, will I even remember the baby I aborted? In the far, far future, when I'm on my deathbed, will it flash before my eyes?

Is it murder?

Will I be a murderer?

Is my age enough to justify ending this?

Women should most definitely have the right to choose.

But I'm not unable. I'm unwilling.

I drop my hand from my stomach and reach for the shampoo bottle in the corner of the shower. I pour a dollop of lavender-citrus in my hand, doing my best to ignore the internal battle I'm having between right and wrong, and I begin washing my hair.

Mid-lather, I start to cry.

The release of frustration, sadness, and fear rocks my body so hard, my knees give out. And it's so dramatic, and so selfish, and so pathetic … but it's true. It's two days of pent up confusion and humiliation that refuses to be pent up any longer. Sobs come from deep within my chest and lungs. My hands shake because I'm scared. That small point one percent is crashing around, wreaking havoc, demanding to be heard: _you want your baby to be a baby._

Ten minutes feels like ten hours, and when the crying slows down to whimpers and quivers, the pain is so much worse than falling off four wheels with Edward was.

I still have soap in my hair, although I assume most of it has washed out, thanks to the spraying shower head. With my eyes closed, I stand up with shaky knees and a weak heart. I aim my head under the water's downpour, thinking most of the suds are already gone. It's not until I open my eyes that I realize I was dead fucking wrong.

Soap bubbles glide from my hair, over my forehead, into my eyes, burning them like fire.

I scream.

Between the crying and the lavender froth, my eyes refuse to open. So I rub them with my hands, which also just so happen to be covered in shampoo.

I scream some more, and finally James comes crashing in.

"What's wrong?" she shrieks, ripping open the shower curtain.

Hurting, defeated, and tired, I cry, "Why me?"

.

.

.

For the second night in a row, one of my friends lies in bed with me after my shower. James and I don't watch a movie, though, and she doesn't open the window. We just lay in the dark, nestled and near, until I slip into a dreamless sleep.

.

.

.

The turquoise-lit LED clock on my nightstand reads two a.m. I'm alone, and the spot James occupied only a few hours ago is cold. She must have left right after my cry-burnt, soap-burnt eyes closed.

My room is still dark and warm and perfectly comfortable, but I know I can't wait any longer.

I lift the blankets from my body and sit up. With a heavy head, and an even heavier heart, I press my bare feet flat onto sandy hardwood. I turn on my bedside lamp and open my closet. The silence in my room as I'm slipping my feet into a pair of fuzzy bunny slippers is excruciating. I'm left alone with my thoughts, which turned on the moment I opened my eyes.

Deciding that I don't need a bra or a sweater, I walk out of my room, down the unlit hallway, into the living room—where my father is snoring away—and out the front door.

This is June, and we live at the beach, but this is still Washington. It's freezing outside, and the thought of running back in the house for a jacket crosses my mind, but I keep walking. One house, two houses, three houses down.

Not surprisingly, Edward is awake.

The garage door of his parents' small, two bedroom home is up. The lights are on, illuminating Edward's makeshift auto body shop. There are tools and replacement parts and buckets full of oil he needs to take in. Esme's pink beach cruiser is leaned against the garage wall it shares with the house on the right. Chairs and ice coolers are piled up in the far left corner. Surfboards are hung up on the walls. An old Rod Stewart poster from our parents' days is up beside them. And a small radio playing the Black Eyed Peas—before Fergie, when they were real hip-hop—sits on top of his workbench, next to the torque wrenches and sockets.

Smirks isn't in the garage, though. He's with his van, under the hood—which is in the back—looking for something to fix. He doesn't have to see me to know I'm there. He just mumbles, "Grab a chair, Sail."

So I do, and I unfold it and sit near him.

"Do you need me to hand you tools or something?" I ask, knowing damn well I didn't come out here to help him with the bus.

He shakes his head. "Nah, I'm good."

Edward's back in jeans, but he's left his Vans on. He's in a plain white tee, and I can see where blood has soaked through in a few spots. The scrapes on his forearms are red, but dry and not bleeding. To Edward, it was just another crash.

"Okay," I say, rubbing the palms of my hands up and down my arms.

Edward looks away from the engine long enough to glance over at me. There's a little smudge of motor oil on his cheek. It's cute.

"You cold?" he asks.

I shrug.

He has a red zip-up hoodie on the ground beside the rolling stool he's sitting on. He tosses it to me. Dark grey eyes roam over my long tee-shirt covered body. "There's a pair of sweats on my bed if you want to run in and put them on."

I slip my arms into his well-worn sweater and sink into the chair. It smells like he does: all boy and all good. I wrap my fingers around the hood's strings and rub them across my lips.

Edward dives back into pistons and timing belts. "Can't sleep?"

I bend my toes inside of bunnies. "No."

Smirks gives me his eyes quickly before looking away and wrenching at something. "Are you okay? You know, after the fall?"

He asks as if he doesn't really expect another answer other than "I'm fine."

But I surprise him and say, "No. I'm not okay."

With the Allen wrench in his hand, Edward sits straight. He looks confused, but not. Maybe he has a point one percent telling him something's not right, too.

His eyes are on me. Mine are on his.

"Do you think you broke something?" he asks lowly.

Edward slowly crosses the four feet between us and rolls his stool over to me. When he's close enough, he hooks his hand under my right wounded knee and lifts it up, setting my leg across his lap. Smirks brushes his thumb over broken skin and whispers, "It's nothing."

My slipper falls off, landing on its side, beside my left foot, which is still on the ground.

The boy I've been so confused about lately, knowingly, or unknowingly, rubs his hand up and down the inside of my thigh. The tips of his fingers go beneath the hem of my shirt, almost touching my underwear.

My chest is so full. My eyes water. I breathe in slowly through my nose and smoothly out between my lips.

With my leg on his lap and his hand between me, my eyes fall to his lips—pouty and perfect and up on one side.

_I know those lips_, I think to myself. _I know what they feel like on me. Everywhere. On every part. _

And then I say it, because I cannot keep it to myself for a moment longer.

"I'm pregnant."

I'm able to trash another person's life with a single breath, and it wasn't even difficult to do—two little words. I'm a coward, though. I can't bring myself to look at him. I keep my eyes down, and I try to drop my leg from Edward's lap, but he grips on to my thigh, keeping me exactly where I am. And still, I won't look.

After a moment, he asks, "Have you told Remington?"

I try for my leg again, but he holds me in place.

"Have you?" he asks for a second time. His tone is thick with a mixture of anger and doubt.

Finally, I look up. He looks helpless. So sad in blood-stained cotton and oil. So unaware, even with his very own point one percent.

"It's not Remington's," I say.

"How do you know?" he asks. His eyes water. My leg drops.

My voice shakes, but I remain firm. "Because I haven't been with Remington in months, Edward."

I stand up and slide my foot back into my slipper. Edward's red hoodie falls further down my body than my shirt does. I connect the zipper with shaky hands and zip it up, not at all considering giving it back tonight.

He takes my wrist, still sitting down. "Whose, Bella?"

He's desperate. Poor boy.

Poor baby.

Edward brings my knuckles to his lips and kisses them, and it's the oddest thing. It's so foreign to see him this way. I haven't even told him yet. Not really. I haven't said it's his. I haven't confirmed anything. And still, he's quietly crying and kissing his tears all over my sand-scratched hand.

"We'll figure it out," I say. "I went to this place today."

Edward lets go of my hand and wipes his eyes on the inside of his forearm. "Yeah, and what did they say?"

He's back to being my fixer. My strong guy.

"There are things we can do," I answer. "A few different options."

He nods. "Okay." Then he spins his stool around, turning away from me.

I go home.

.

.

.

I'm not surprised when my bedroom door opens an hour later. He's a dim silhouette against a darker background. He's tall and a little lanky and a little lean. He's soap-scented and clean.

The boy who kissed my knuckles shuts the door behind him. He steps quietly across wood floors and pulls his shirt over his head. I lift the blankets, and he slips into bed with me.

I kiss him back when his lips touch mine. When his hand slides up my shirt, I let it. I let him take it off, too.

I hold on to his shoulders as his mouth presses wet kisses along my throat. I open my legs wider when he starts to push between me.

I think about Remington. But then I don't.

My hands fall from his shoulders to his shorts between us. I reach in and pull him out. He doesn't ask me if I'm sure this time. He doesn't need to.

My fixer is up on his knees, hooking his fingers under the elastic of my underwear. They sweep down my legs in one fluid motion. They drop somewhere. I don't care where.

Then he's over me again. I grip his length and put him where he needs to go.

We kiss.

I hold on to his hips now.

He pushes in, and my knees fall open.

In the dark, his pout is still gorgeous. He's so aware and so exposed, and he's letting me right in—the one and only place I hadn't known about him until my birthday.

And he's so strong. There's so much muscle under my palms. So much strength between my legs. So much power inside of me.

He's always been incredible.

Then he's moving a little faster and a little harder, and he's close. I'm not, but it doesn't even matter. I grip him tight and moan against his skin. I kiss his chest, and I press my lips to the place where his smirk usually is.

He whispers, "Fuck."

My eyes roll, because, yeah, Smirks is hot_._

His entire body tenses before he comes, but it's only for a fraction of a second before he remembers I'm already pregnant; nothing worse can happen.

We're already the aftereffect.

Unable to hold himself up any longer, he presses down on me while his hips finish in slow pushes. He breathes hard but holds me harder. I feel like I should tell him I'm not going anywhere, like, "You're stuck with me now—best friends are forever." But I don't. I push hair away from his face and wipe tears out from under his eyes. He lets mine slip into my hair.

He pulls out, but stays with me. "What are we going to do?" he asks.

I circle my arms around his neck, hugging him close. He softly kisses right under my jaw. I slide my feet until my legs are flat beside each of Edward's.

My feet arerubbing back and forth on sand-littered sheets when I ask, "Are you the Sandman or something?" He smiles. "You bring it everywhere," I say. "The least you could do is put me to sleep."

Edward pushes up on his hands, hovering over me. He smirks. "I was walking on the beach. You know, clearing my fucking head."

I scowl, trying to hide my smile. "You could have, I don't know, brushed yourself off."

He smirks higher. "I brushed your pussy off."

I gasp. "You'll brush my sheets off."

Edward reaches between us and adjusts his shorts before falling on the bed beside me. He takes my hand, and in a less than lively tone, he says, "I'll do whatever you want, Sail."

I try to play it off. My heart hammers inside of my chest. "You'll clean my sheets?"

He lightly laughs. "Yeah, I'll clean your sheets."


	7. You Savage

**I do not own Twilight. If I did, Bella would be blonde. **

**Huge thanks to Vampshavelaws, Filia, Andrea, Catherine, and Jenny. I'm not lying when I say this literally would not be the same without all of your help. **

**A small note: I'm not writing Pickup Truck to debate opinions about abortion, nor am I forcing my opinion on any of you. I'm simply telling a story. **

**The reaction to the last chapter stunned me. Thank you so, so much for all of the love. I swear I didn't mean to make anyone cry. **

**Thanks for reading. **

**Statistics: **

_The U.S spends an average of seven billion dollars each year due to the cost of teen pregnancy._

_Eighty percent of unmarried teen mothers end up on welfare. _

For more information visit: (www) teenhelp. c o m

**.**

**.**

**.**

**Chapter six**

It's nice not to wake up alone, but real life demands to be lived. The hex we were under in the early-morning hours disappears the moment our eyes open, and everything becomes heavy and blue and frustrating and daunting. I thought the weight of my reality would lessen once it became _our_ reality, but it hasn't. It almost seems worse.

On with the difficulty of the next step: choosing.

He hasn't said anything yet, but I know Edward's awake. His breathing is rhythmic and too controlled, purposely taking measured breaths in his attempt to become invisible. Our hands are still linked. My fingers are sore from being curved to grip his for so long. He wants to let go, though. I can feel the hesitance in his hold.

My partner in this crime is as far away from me as he can get on my queen-sized bed, lying completely straight and stiff on the edge. I'm positive the only reason his right hand and my left are together is because of the death clutch I have on his fingers.

There's no uncertainty in my grasp.

He can't get away from me. This boy lives three doors down. I will find him.

"I know you're awake," I say. "You've always sucked at breathing."

He inhales deeply and exhales with a sigh. Edward tries to pull his fingers from my lock, but I hold tighter. I move closer to him, too. He has no other choice but to be here for me. And it's not about the sex, either, which shouldn't have happened again considering Dani and Remington and the fact that I just told my lifelong friend he knocked me up. It's just separate from this mess and not as important—our sins of the flesh are not as significant as the sin in my womb. Although I have no doubt it'll come up eventually, destroying everything the news of the baby misses.

If we keep it.

I turn my head and look over at evil penis boy. His cock is such a life-breaker—six and a half inches of horrible, low-down hang down, dumb dong, wicked wang, bullshit baby-maker—a shaft of terrible.

I can only imagine the names he's coming up with for my hooha.

Edward's eyes are glued to the ceiling, and I know he's not counting the glow-in-the-dark stars. He's blinking, lost in thought. Lost in how fucked we are. His free arm is behind his head, and his chest is bare. If we were a couple and we were in love and we were happy, waking up to him shirtless would probably be really nice, but we're none of those things.

When he finally speaks, Edward's voice is rough. "How did this happen?"

I roll my eyes. "Do I really need to have a talk with you about the birds and the bees, Smirks?"

He sighs again. "Don't be a smartass."

I bet he'd appreciate it if I released his hand. It's probably all in my head, but I swear he's slowly creeping away from me. If he gets any closer to the edge, he'll slip to the ground.

I move closer, until we're side by side.

He smirks a little.

I turn and face him, becoming parallel with my deep thinker. He won't look at me, but he's not trying to get away anymore. Edward's long, calloused fingers wrap around mine. In the most comforting rotations, his thumb brushes back and forth across the tiny bones on top of my hand. When we were kids, I used to make him tickle his fingertips up and down one of my arms until I fell asleep. He would give me a hard time about it, but he always caved.

"How long have you known, Bella?" he asks. His thumb moves a little faster.

I tilt my head, settling my temple against his shoulder. "A couple of days," I answer.

My eyes wander around the room, because now, I'm the one who refuses to look at him. My cheeks warm as my temperature rises. I'm embarrassed, and I'm ashamed. Edward's thumb stops circling, and I can feel his grey eyes on me. I bend my knees under the blankets, moving sand around the sheets. The scabs on my knees protest and crack, and I think about asking Edward how his back feels, just to get the attention away from me.

"The other night on the beach…" he starts.

I can tell by his disappointing tone that he's upset. Maybe I should have told him right away. But really, I just wanted there to be a chance it wasn't true.

"I knew," I say in a low voice. "I didn't notice I'd missed my period until Charlie made some comment about it that morning. I called James, and she drove me to Port Angeles." I go on and tell him about how we ran into Alice, and Save Mart Guy and Prune Juice Lady. I tell him about the pregnancy tests in the bathroom, and how I threw up after three of them came up positive.

"But I still wasn't sure," I continue.

Next, I retell all about Planned Parenthood and Dr. Receptionist Lady. But before that, the brochures and the poster on the wall that claims our baby already has a nose, ears, and mouth.

Edward sits up. He scrubs his face in the palms of his hands before dragging his fingers through his auburn hair and looking back at me. "We used a condom."

I roll onto my back, irritated. With an obnoxious laugh, I say, "Yeah, and you ripped the package open with your teeth, idiot."

He doesn't get it. "So?"

I kick the blankets off, suddenly hot. I don't miss that Edward looks right at my stomach, like something should be there. But just because you can't see it, doesn't mean it's not true. I'm full of Cullen baby, and whatever it is—girl or boy—it's real.

This rice-sized fetus will grow, and it will be born, and it'll be ours … unless we do something soon.

"So," I mimic him vindictively. "A condom with a rip in it, Edward, is no good. It's the same as using nothing at all."

Edward's shoulders slouch, and I'm not surprised; this burden is heavy. He drops his face back into his hands and groans. The scratches across his back aren't bleeding anymore, but they're inflamed and red. A few of the lighter ones have scabbed, but the larger wounds are still raw. I feel better, but it looks like Edward took the brunt of the fall. My concern isn't so much for myself or Smirks, though. It's for what our carelessness produced.

Pregnancy must really be messing with me, because three days ago I didn't even know I was pregnant and everything was fine, but today, it's like I can feel it. My stomach seems fuller, and my breasts are sorer than they were yesterday. Behind exhaustion and frustration, I'm kind of nauseated. I'm hungry, but the thought of eating something, like eggs or yogurt, grosses me out.

I just don't know if I really _feel_ all of these things, or if my mind is only playing tricks on me.

While Edward's pouting, I lift my shirt up and rub my hand over my lower stomach. I push my fingers into the same spots I remember Dr. Hansen pressing hers. It feels harder, but not from normal muscle mass—this is different. The area under my belly button looks rounder, too, but only a little bit. Not enough for anyone else to notice, but I do.

At least I think I do.

I'm still pressing into my skin when I feel a small cramp in my uterus. The fall Edward and I took last night flashes before my eyes, and I get scared. After I've pushed my shirt back down, I remain very still, waiting to see if I feel it again. I don't, but I don't relax either.

Then Edward whispers, "You promise you haven't been with Remington, Sail?"

I should smack him, or press my finger into one of the huge gashes on his back, but I get it. I know he isn't questioning my morals or my trust, but before he walked into my bedroom last night, Edward and I had only been together once—Remington was my boyfriend for a couple of years. If I were Edward, I'd ask the same question.

"I swear," I say.

He gets out of bed, and like I did the morning I suspected my current status, he paces. I try not to stare, but I can't help it. He's so handsome. Morning hair. Sex hair. Scraped up arms and chest and back and knees. Edward's shoulders are so broad, and his torso is so long. Smirks has this great body, and I've always noticed, but now I've seen it in action. I've seen the way his face pouts and reddens while he's inside of me. I've felt his muscles ripple beneath my hands. I know what the strength in his hips feels like. I've heard how his chest rumbles when he comes, and I know what he sounds like when he's coming down.

I've trembled around his cock, and yeah, Smirks is hot.

I tug the blankets over my face so he can't see how blushed my cheeks are.

He pulls them off.

I squeak and laugh nervously, like he might actually know by looking at my face that I was just thinking about his dick. Static pulls my hair as the blankets are yanked from my body. Dark blonde strands float around my head before settling on my pillow. I hold the hem of my shirt down, and I lie completely straight. With my bottom lip between my teeth, I look up at Edward.

"I'm not mad at you," he says. My blankets are clutched in his fist, and as a result, the muscles in his bicep are all firm and flexed and a little bit bulging and a whole lotta sexy.

"I know," I say, moving my attention from his guns to his eyes. His face is just as sexy, though. He's gorgeous, and I hope our baby looks like him.

"Then don't ignore me from under the blankets," he says, dropping them.

"I'm not," I lie, not able to cover the embarrassment in my tone.

He's struggling over the pregnancy, and I'm drooling over his arm muscles and schlong. I should be embarrassed.

Obviously conflicted, Edward stands at the side of my bed with a tight jaw and dark eyes. I can tell he has a lot on his mind. His eyebrows come together, like he's about to say something. But when they draw apart, it's as if he's decided not to speak after all.

Eventually he just admits, "I don't know what to do."

.

.

.

I smell marijuana as soon as we walk out of my bedroom door. It doesn't usually bother me—not any more than usual—but until Edward and I come to an agreement about this kid's existence, I should at least treat it like it matters. I mean, we could always choose adoption. That road would only partway fuck up our lives, and the baby would be given a decent chance at survival. And in that case, the baby's development matters.

I don't know why, but the thought of giving our child away almost feels worse than killing it.

Edward's at my side, with his hand on my lower back. The walk from my bedroom to the kitchen isn't a long one, only a few steps, but combined with the aroma of the pot is the scent of cooking bacon—it bans me from taking another step. I cup my hand over my nose and mouth, trying to control the onslaught of sickness, but it's too late. As soon as the greasy swine smell hits my nostrils, my stomach twists and curves and pangs. My mouth pools with saliva, and my throat burns.

Edward puts his hand on my shoulder. "Are you going to puke?" he asks urgently.

I crouch over, placing the palms of my hands on my knees. I keep my head low, and after swallowing the spit that gathered in my mouth, I breathe large lungfuls of oxygen, paying special attention not to inhale through my nose. Only I taste bacon in the air, and it's worse than the smell. My stomach lurches, and I gag. Twice.

The only bathroom in this house is directly behind Edward. He kicks open the door and practically shoves me in. I'm sweating now, completely embarrassed but unable to stop dry heaving. I turn on the faucet, hoping that if I take a drink I'll feel better. I hold my hair over one side of my head and part my lips under the stream of cold bathroom water. But I have to breathe, and I'm sipping so fast I don't think as I draw in air through my nose. Right away, all of the water I just drank rises up my esophagus, fighting its way back up.

Smirks takes the liberty of lifting the toilet seat for me. I fall to my knees, squeeze the side of cool porcelain, and retch.

It's foul, and considering it's only mostly water, I'm actually really surprised by how much my stomach releases. Between not being able to control my gut, trying to get in a decent breath between heaves, and knowing this might only be the start of a very long pregnancy, I'm beginning to question if I can even handle this at all. I'm miserable at best.

Making it a little better, my fixer's behind me rubbing circles on my back. He doesn't offer any words, and I'm glad. Eventually, though, he notices the ends of my hair are dipped in the toilet water and he pulls it back for me.

"This is fucking disgusting," he says, loosely holding my vomit-curls in a circle he's making with his thumb and pointer finger.

I laugh, and then I puke again.

I manage to keep myself from gagging for an entire sixty seconds before I think I might be able to get up. Edward's still behind me, holding my hair and rubbing my back. I concentrate on the revolutions his large palm is making. I count them.

_Twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three… _

I take slow, even breaths, and even though I can still smell bacon, it doesn't have the same effect. My stomach remains fragile, but I can stand it.

That's until Charlie walks in with the frying pan in one hand—bacon still sizzling—and a burned strip in the other, asking, "What the hell is going on?"

I watch in slow motion as my father lifts the slice of bacon to his mouth, opening up to take a bite, but as soon as he chomps down and starts chewing—bacon grease glosses his mustache—time returns to normal.

I lean over, hold the toilet, and heave.

.

.

.

We tell Charlie I'm hungover.

He's as disappointed as a father who's lit all of the time can be. I mean, what can he really say while his pipe and bag are on the table beside his plate of eggs and devil bacon? Not much.

He tries, though. And I listen, spooning my oatmeal.

"You know I don't mind, Bella," he lectures. "But you have to be responsible."

I nod.

"I trust you," he says, shoving scrambled dead chicken fetuses into his mouth.

I swallow a gag.

My dad talks with his mouth full of food. "I don't want that to be compromised, man."

I take a chance and look up from cinnamon oats to my only parent. His eyes are bloodshot and hooded, and his expression has the laziness it acquires whenever he smokes. It's like the muscles in his face lose all function, and his skin kind of sags. He took a shower this morning, like he does every morning, but his too-long hair is a wiry disarray, and he has eggs in his beard. Going by the pack of Oreos and Ritz Crackers beside his almost empty bottle of water, Charlie has the munchies.

Father of the year.

I don't really want to talk out of fear that if I do, my stomach will turn inside out again. So I look to Edward for aid. With his own plate loaded with dead chicken fetuses and bacon, I'm not sure he's even paying attention. He's eating, but he's a boy, and boys never miss an opportunity to eat.

_Edward. Edward. Edward. Smirks! _I scream in my head, hoping that with pregnancy, Edward and I have developed some kind of telepathic connection. No such luck, though. We may have created a life together, but it's obvious parenting doesn't come with special powers.

Silently shouting this boy's name has done nothing more than give me a headache. He's still scooping eggs into his mouth, and Charlie remains relentless in his need to prove who's really boss around here. Tuning him out takes energy I don't have to spare, so instead of further exhausting myself by pretending I'm halfway okay, I slouch and lean forward. After pressing my warm cheek against the cool metal kitchen table, I close my eyes.

I'm semi-listening as my dad goes on and on about learning from his mistakes and recognizing responsibility and being better than him. It's all shit I've heard before, almost word for word.

Depending on Charlie's headspace, he can be one of three different people when he's under the influence.

First, there's Funny Charlie, who's carefree, hilarious, and lighthearted. This version of Dad is probably my favorite, because as long as he's happy, so is everyone else. The only parent I have is often energetic and productive on these days. He'll get a lot done at the shop, and he'll actually stay there for an entire workday. When he's home, he'll clean, cook, and start projects around the house, like refinishing the wood floors or painting the bathroom. He's attentive and really interested in me—fatherly. I quickly learned that if I want something, asking while he's Funny Charlie will always result in my favor.

Second, there's Rambling Charlie: his current form. Because these are the times he likes to flash his parent card like a badge, this version of my life-giver is really hard to be around. It's as if he temporarily understands he's spent so much time being a sucky dad, that he puts too much effort into being a good one in a short period of time. It's a day's worth of lectures and life lessons, and "You're better than this life, Bella." Or "Mom wanted more for you, Sail."

_She should have stuck around then, _I always think, but never say.

And third, there's Angry Charlie.

Marijuana has the reputation of being soothing and dreamlike—it apparently eases the pain—but that's not always the truth. Sometimes it turns on its user, intensifying the hurt and disappointment and guilt. When this happens, Charlie is mean. He's angry that his wife killed herself, he's angry that I look like her, and he's angry that he has to raise me alone. On those days, I stay over at Edward's or James' house. I used to try to be supporting—he is my pops, after all—but there became a point when I accepted that I made things worse for him. It's better for us both if I'm not around.

Sober Charlie comes around every couple of years, but I don't know him that well.

"Bella," Dad calls too loudly.

I lift my head, wiping the little bit of drool from the corner of my mouth. "What?" I groan.

Edward pushes his seat away from the table and crosses his arms over his bare chest. Returned from oh-fuck-I-knocked-up-my-best-friend land, his plate is empty and his lips are turned up. After taking in his appearance, I realize how suggestive the pair of us look. Straight-up and flat on the left side, Smirks' hair is tousled and inappropriately out of place. He's half-naked, previously completely naked, and his face is just naughty. None of this feels as innocent as it used to be.

At least the night I got pregnant was an honest, not so honest, drunken slipup.

I shouldn't be sitting at this freakin' breakfast table, freshly fucked, in my underwear, morning-sickness scented. I don't even have a bra on under my shirt.

We're bad, and I deserve a Rambling Charlie day.

"It's all the tequila she drank last night, C," Edward chimes in, smiling. "Got any more bacon?" he adds purposely.

I reach for my dad's fork so I can stab Smirks' eyes out.

Unaware of my plans for his utensil, Charlie absently grabs it first; he pokes into his eggs. With a full mouth, he says, "Carlisle mentioned you called out the other day, Sail."

Edward winks.

I gather my hair and tie it in a knot before answering, "I was sick."

The clink the fork makes as my dad drops it to his plate is like nails on a chalkboard to my delicate head. I close my eyes and rub my temples in a small attempt to alleviate the pounding. Pot, bacon, this impending baby, eating noises, and the mention of tequila is more than I'm willing to sit through. When I open up again, determined to get back to my room so I can rock my crazy ass back and forth in the dark, the sunlight coming through the kitchen window seems a lot brighter than it did before I closed my lids twenty fucking seconds ago. My head thumps, my stomach swirls, and my uterus cramps again.

I'm about to sprint to my room when Charlie says, "I'm afraid for your future." He reaches for my hand. "You can't call out for work. What does that say about you?"

A thin sheet of perspiration layers my entire body, covering me in salty, sticky moisture. I can feel it gathering behind my knees and on my lip, and for a moment, I wonder if I look as bad as I feel. I must, because the hotter my temperature rises, the more spit I have to swallow, the more my stomach dances. Charlie's still talking, but I can only watch his lips move. I nod, but only because it's keeping me from throwing up all over the table.

Smirks gets up from his seat. He's in my line of vision, opening the fridge and reaching for the milk. Charlie's lips ask, "Do you have work today?"

I kind of squeak, "Yes."

Edward pours himself a glass of calcium. I wipe my forehead and then the area below my nose.

It's like I can smell it—thick and white and thick. I know Edward's milk isn't warm; I watched him pull it from the fridge, but my mind has been fucking with me for three full days. I'm convinced the milk is hot and spoiled and clumpy, and if he drinks it, he will die. Milk poisoning. It happens.

"Don't!" I bark out, slamming my hand on the table.

Dad stops talking, and Edward smirks. He holds the glass to his lips and winks.

I gag.

He gulps.

I run.

Just as I reach the bathroom door, Dad calls out, "Remington called while you were sleeping with Edward in your room with the door shut! And Edward has no shirt on!"

.

.

.

Showers make everything better.

I'm in the middle of mine, lying on the bottom of the tub with my legs up, when Edward rips open the shower curtain. Rusty hooks slide along an even rustier rod, and it's disrupted my paradise. I didn't even hear him come in. Which doesn't surprise me; I was too busy not feeling nauseated.

As I'm scrambling to cover my bits and pieces, Edward leans against the sink and says, "Apparently I'm not allowed to spend the night unless I wear a shirt."

I only kind of notice he's dressed in one of Charlie's Hawaiian print button-ups; I'm more concerned with hiding myself from him. With my knees up, I've wrapped my arms around my shins. Water sprays down on me but it's not as comforting as it was before Baby Daddy barged in.

"Get out!" I insist harshly.

He ignores me. "I have to go to work, but we need to talk."

"Fine. Leave." I extend my arm and point to the door. It totally exposes my left breast, and Edward looks.

He smiles. "I'll come to Munchies when my shift's over, okay?"

I meet his eyes. I don't want him to go at all.

"Okay," I answer lowly.

We stare at each other for a few seconds longer, but then he stands straight. Edward closes the shower curtain, and he goes. He's gone from the house when I get out of the shower, but completely on my mind as I get ready for work.

Instead of calling Remi on my walk to the candy shop, I call James. "What are you doing?" I ask when she answers.

She sighs. "Poking holes in Felix's condoms with a sewing needle. What are you doing?"

I've only made it as far as the sidewalk in front of my house, but I stop walking. A man on a beach cruiser chimes his bell at me before riding by. Under different circumstances, like if I wasn't pregnant and hadn't already taken a fall last night, I would have stuck my foot out and watched him fall.

"You're what?" I ask, trying not to laugh, because really, her answer is horrifying.

James scoffs. "You can't be pregnant alone."

I begin to walk again, adjusting the beach bag hanging on my shoulder. The heat from the cement rises through the bottom of my black rubber flip-flops, warming my toes. I only pulled my wet hair into a high ponytail, but the noon sun shining down on me from the bluest sky is already drying it. I can feel UV-rays burning the tip of my nose and the tops of my shoulders. Summer has come with a vengeance this year; the heat's almost suffocating. The water must be incredible.

"You're not getting yourself pregnant because I am," I say with a touch of humor in my tone, hoping she was only joking. With James, though, you never know.

"I would do it for you," she says.

I smile. "I know."

"Where are you?" she asks. "Come over."

With my cell phone still at my now sweaty ear, I look both ways before crossing the street over to the beach and boardwalk. The asphalt is warmer than the concrete. Even with shoes on, I run because my feet get too hot.

"I can't," I say when I'm safely on the other side. "I have to work today."

First Beach is alive and thriving; it gets my blood pumping, and I'm almost able to forget my unforgettable problem. The slight breeze smells like seaweed and banana-carrot. Seagulls are in the air, circling above anyone with food. Some dig in the trash, and a few actually have enough nerve to walk right up to people eating their lunch. The ocean looks like glass, and I'm envious of every single person who gets to enjoy how perfect the waves are.

"Fucking boo," James whines. "Wait. I have to work today, too. I have a lesson at two-thirty. What time is it?"

"A little after twelve," I say.

"Shit. I have gotta go." She makes a moaning sound, like she's stretching her arms. "Tourists. European tourists. Maybe they're hot."

I stop outside Munchies' front entrance. "Have fun. I wish I was in the water today," I say regretfully.

"Steal some Oreo fudge for me," she says.

"Okay," I answer. Before she hangs up, though, I say, "James, I told Edward."

My favorite girl is quiet for moment. And then she says, "Dani California is going to kick your ass."

I roll my eyes, ready to end the call so I can sell some candy, but then I decide to really get James going. With a smirk that would battle Edward's for greatness, I say, "And we fucked after."

"What?" James shrieks. "Oh my—"

I hang up.

When I enter the shop, Esme's behind the counter that runs parallel with the right wall. Her auburn hair's tied up with a number two pencil, and she has a look of utter disbelief on her face—a look her son shared just this morning. I don't think he would have told her our news before we could talk about it ourselves, but for a moment I wonder if he has. Something's definitely wrong. It can be anything, but my guilty conscience is screaming my truth: she knows!

My baby's grandmother sighs, looking straight at me. "I can't wrap my head around this, Sail."

I stop in front of the doorway. My heart is thudding like the beat of a drum, and I silently wish I would have taken Smirks' eyes out with that fork earlier. Or gouged my own eyes out. Anything would be better than seeing the look on Esme's face right now.

"Wh—what?" I ask.

She pushes herself away from the back counter and walks around the register out to the floor. "Follow me," she says, motioning me back with her hand.

There are two things I know for sure about Esme Cullen: You don't get between her and anything fried, and you don't lie to her. Attempting either will only result in your own agony.

When the parents started living up to their duties, the first thing they left behind was blow. In my earliest memories of Esme, she's slender and perfect and always half-dressed. She wore teeny-tiny bikinis, short shorts, and tummy shirts. It was all an illusion the cocaine provided, because as soon as she stopped using, she gained weight.

She's not exactly fat, but Esme has a thing for fried foods: chicken, burritos, pickles, cookies—anything that can be fried will be fried, and she'll eat it. When she began to put on the pounds, I remember Charlie making a comment about how he dodged a bullet. He was only joking, because no one is unhealthier than my father, but she still got mad.

But not as angry as she gets if you're dishonest with her.

If she knows I'm pregnant and asks, I'll tell her the truth. Dealing with that will be better than facing a lied-to Esme.

The human lie detector test leads the way to the office, which also seconds as a storage room if the basement gets full on shipment days: today. I like it back here; the air-conditioner blows cold, there's a TV, and a computer with internet access. And because it's away from the rest of the shop, when we're slow and as long as I'm not working alone, I sometimes sneak away and sleep in the chair behind the desk.

Being the sort-of daughter of the owners comes with its privileges, like being able to eat all the candy I want and taking a nap if I'm tired. Which I am.

"Carlisle is such an infant," Esme complains as she pushes the office door.

My heartbeat skips at the word infant.

I clear my throat. "What are you trying to say?" I ask with fake confidence.

My sort-of mother looks back at me. She has a small double chin and I feel like poking it.

Esme holds the door open so I can walk past her. "I asked my husband to order twenty-five pounds of Swiss chocolate for the fudge."

I walk directly to the plastic chair sitting in front of the mahogany desk—the same seat I took when Carlisle pulled me to the side to tell me my coworkers were upset because I was sleeping during my shifts. Esme turns me by my shoulders before I have a chance to sit, showing me the boxes piled against the wall.

"He ordered twenty-five cases of Swedish Fish, Sail. We'll never sell it before it goes bad."

I force a laugh. "This is why you're upset?" I ask nervously.

She drops her hands from my shoulders and walks over to the small mountain of cardboard boxes. She pulls the tape from the one closest to her and reaches in, scooping up red gummi fish. I've worked at Munchies long enough to know that we don't order twenty-five cases of Swedish Fish a year, let alone in a week. But when Esme pours sweet fishies back into the box, my mouth salivates and I know I can help with her candy problem.

I lick my lips, completely focused on the open box of Swedish Fish. "Can I eat one?" I ask.

Esme gives me a curious look. "Eat as many as you like, Sail. We have to do something with them."

She walks over to her desk, and I walk to the boxes, shoveling handfuls of a pregnant girl's dream into my bag; I pop a couple into my mouth, too. It's like heaven, so I pop a dozen more. I can't chew them fast enough. Sticky sugar is stuck between my teeth and in my molars, but I keep eating.

"Sail!" Esme gasps. "Get a bag, you savage."

With a mouthful of candy, I turn and guiltily look. "Sorry," I mumble.

I grab one more handful before I leave the office. If someone can figure out a way to fry these, we won't have to worry about selling them. Between Esme and me, we'll finish them off.

Munchies is one of three candy shops on the boardwalk, but we're the best and, by far, the most popular. It's small, but comfortable. We offer a little of everything, including homemade fudge, made in a copper pot, and sea salt taffy. Tootsie Rolls are sold for a penny, and Jelly Belly's are sold by the pound. Kettle corn, licorice in every flavor, Jawbreakers, Bottle Caps, gummy bears, gummy worms, lollipops; candy sold in bulk, and candy sold individually. Munchies has a soda bar and soft served ice cream cones.

We're a junk food junkies dream.

And I've never been hungrier in my life.

By the end of my shift, I've spent six hours stuffing my face. I don't know if Esme's still here or not. If she's gone, I didn't hear or see her leave. My stomach aches, but not like it was earlier. This is a great ache. I'm not a huge candy eater, but the craving hit me hard, and I've eaten my yearly quota of candy. I feel like I could eat another year's worth. It's ridiculous. I'm on my third vanilla cone, and I'm not ruling out a forth.

Nothing can spoil this sugar rush.

Except Remington walking through the door.

Which he does.

The bell above the doorframe jingles as he enters, notifying me of the incoming customer. I wish he were here to buy Baby Ruths or Sugar Daddies, but he's not. I never called him back. In fact, I've hardly talked to him at all. I owe him some kind of explanation, because if the roles were reversed, I'd be livid and confused. We might not be officially dating, but I'm his and he's mine.

Ex-boyfriend really is something special. My baby-filled, vanilla-filled, Swedish Fish-filled tummy flies as soon as I set eyes on him. His skateboard is under his arm, and he's dressed in a white shirt, black slim-straight denim, and red Vans. This boy's curly dark brown hair is down and windblown, and I want to run my fingers through it as bad as I want another ice cream cone.

I lick the trail of melting soft serve from the side of my waffle cone, reminding myself, _you are pregnant with another boy's baby. _

Remington approaches the counter; I'm on one side and he's on the other, and I swear I can smell the shampoo in his hair and the body soap on his skin. His truck keys are hooked on his belt loop, and he has a chain around his neck that my silver promise ring hangs from. He gave it to me six months after we started dating, and when we split this last time, I threw it at him. He wears it so he can give it back to me when we patch things up.

I take another swipe with my tongue at the cone, trying desperately to be normal. Remington's eyes are on fire, though. He lets his board drop to the black and white checkered tile floor and puts his hands on the counter that separates us. He's upset, and probably really hurt. It's summertime; we should be together and in love and fucking non-stop, but we're not. And we won't.

Even if I don't have this baby, things with Remington won't be the same.

"I miss you," he says with an edge to his tone.

I lick my sugary lips. "I miss you, too," I say. I shouldn't, but it's true.

He pushes away from the counter, like he's relieved. He smiles, but I don't, so then he doesn't anymore, either.

"What?" he asks.

I drop the rest of my ice cream into the trash and start wiping down the fudge station. I shake my head. "Nothing."

Remington sits at one of the two booths we have at Munchies. "Bullshit, Sail."

I haven't scrubbed the counter well enough; there's still crumbs of rocky road and peanut butter fudge in the corners of the glass case, but I can't concentrate long enough to do it right. I move on to the register, closing it out for the night. I'm counting twenties when my first love steps to my side of the inventory. He kisses the back of my shoulder. I exhale a shaky breath.

"You can't be here, Remington," I say lowly.

"With you?" he asks defensively.

I look up, but not over my shoulder. "No, on this side of the counter."

He stands back while I finish counting the drawer. When I close it, he turns me around by my hips. The shampoo, soap, beach boy smell is so much stronger with him this close. I sink into his embrace, and when he whispers, "Why does this feel different?" it's all I can do not to cry.

Having him near me, holding me, loving me feels so natural and comfortable, and repetitious. It's as easy as breathing. And I am so guilty.

When the bell above the door jingles again, Remington pulls away first. I forgot all about Smirks until I hear his voice.

"Wrong side of the counter, Remington," Edward says harshly as he walks by. I know he's in the office when I hear the door slam.

Remi presses his lips together, obviously bothered by Edward's attitude. He kisses my forehead before jumping over the counter. With his board back in his hand, he pushes open the door. The bell jingles. "I'll wait for you out here."

When he's out of sight, I untie the apron I'm wearing and hang it up. I turn out all the lights, switch the OPEN sign to CLOSED, and make my way back to Edward. When I enter the office, he's standing in front of the twenty-five cases of Swedish Fish.

"Is this a joke?" he asks.

"An accident," I answer.

He laughs. "Yeah, a fucking accident."

I drop down into the chair behind the desk. Edward stands.

"Did you tell him?" he asks, referring to Remington.

I roll my eyes. "Do you think if I did he'd be so easy about it?"

Edward smirks, like he's entertaining the thought of fighting Remi. I don't know why, either. I thought we were all friends, even if they have roughed each other up a few times.

I sit back in the chair and press the palms of my hands against my stomach. I'm only trying to soothe how full I am from all the junk I ate today, but Edward doesn't know that. He probably thinks I'm comforting our unborn baby or something, like maybe I've made up my mind about it already. It's not easy witnessing how conflicted he is.

My reaction to Edward's proximity is different than my reaction to Remington's, but it's not the same as it always was. There's something in me, and I don't mean the baby, that wants him around. But not like before. Not as my fixer or my best friend or as the boy who used to pour me cereal and tickle my arms. It's something brand new, and it scratches at me from the inside.

Smirks takes a seat in the plastic chair. After lifting his hat off of his head, he runs a hand through his hair. His cheeks fill with air before he exhales, and like he doesn't know what to do with his hands, he crosses his arms over his black _Charlie's Surf and Ride_ uniform tee shirt.

"You're not back with him, are you?" he questions. "Because if we're doing this, that's my kid in there." He nods his head to where my hands still lay over my lower stomach.

I scoff, moving my hands to the desk. "Are you serious?"

Grey eyes meet mine. "I'm dead serious."

"You asshole!" I say loudly. "This is your fault!"

He's taken aback. Smug-smirking, he points to himself. "My fault?"

I nod. "Yeah, you ripped a hole in the condom with your big ass teeth."

His jaw tenses. "Maybe it was your piranha pussy, Sail."

"What?" I ask confused. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"It sucked me in and chewed on my dick. It doesn't surprise me this happened, you tricky—"

I stand up, cutting him off before he calls me something that will force me to kick his ass.

"Don't go," Edward calls after me as I leave the office. "We're talking!"

I ignore him. I grab my bag from behind the register and leave. He can lock the fucking door.

Completely focused on getting home, I forgot Remington was on the beach somewhere waiting for me. I'm too mad to feel bad, though. I'm too mad to turn off the TV when I get home, too. I'm too upset to pull the bong out of Charlie's hands, and I'm too crazy to cover him up.

Fuck Charlie.

In my room, I drop my bag and start changing out of my clothes, furious Edward would blame this on me.

"Piranha pussy?" I repeat to myself. "Bastard," I hiss, pulling down my shorts and panties so I can put on my sleep shorts.

Then I see it.

There's blood on my underwear.


	8. Smudge

**I do not own Twilight. If I did, James would have been a girl. **

**Big thank you to my betas Catherine, Jenny, and especially, Kim. Your words of encouragement have given me so much. **

**And Andrea, my faithful pre-reader. **

**Statistics: **

_Thirty-five percent of pregnant teenagers have an abortion. _

_Those teenagers are between the ages of fifteen and nineteen. _

**.**

**.**

**.**

**Chapter Seven**

Maybe it's because I'm upset, or maybe it's my mind refusing to accept what already is, but at first glance, I assume I've started my period.

_It's no big deal. I'll just get a tampon._

It's a relief that sends a tremble down my entire body, like, _that was a close one._ I don't realize how wound up I was until I relax. Every tendon and joint and bone and vein and nerve in my body goes kind of soft, my jaw aches, and I take a deep breath that tingles my lungs. It's as if I'm being blanketed with peace of mind; it's bliss—warm, soaring, and brisk.

Only, the brief break from tension triggers a panic I've never experienced before in my life, and I'm lined with fear.

I'm absolutely pregnant. My baby has a nose, eyes, and mouth. I'm seven—almost eight—weeks along. My due date is January twenty-eighth. I should not be bleeding. I should be mortified that I felt so calm at all.

After completely removing my shorts, I separate my underwear from worn denim and only put cutoff Levi's back on. With the blood-spotted undies in one hand and my cell phone in the other, I rush to the bathroom. I flip on the light and lock the door. My hands are shaking a bit, and even though my heart feels steady, it's bound with anxiety. Concern and apprehension and confusion circle my beat, constricting it a little more with every spin.

With my shorts around my ankles, I'm sitting on the toilet with my knees pressed together. I'm afraid to look. I'm afraid to wipe, fearful of what will show up on white Cottonelle. And suddenly, those few aches I had in my uterus sporadically throughout the day seem so much worse than they were when they were happening. I focus on the area now, trying to figure out if it still hurts or not—I don't think it does. I press on my lower stomach, searching for a difference from earlier this morning.

Really, though, it's all the same. There's nothing there.

What if I'm bleeding because I've been pushing on my stomach for two days? Am I somehow pushing my baby out? Am I killing it?

Do I want it to die?

A lot of my problems would be solved: lies wouldn't be so large, lives wouldn't be so ruined, and I wouldn't feel so responsible.

Miscarriages happen. Even if this is happening because I've been pressing my fingers into my belly, I didn't know. I'm young. Nobody told me. I haven't read the fucking brochures yet.

And still, there's a tiny part of me—the point one percent—that doesn't want this to happen. It's not as dominant as the parts that shout for my body to destroy its rice-sized intruder, but it will mourn, and it insists on being heard. It screams louder than the rest: _You don't want this to end! You care. You love. _

_I can't, _I think to myself, wrapping toilet paper around my hand. _I can't care. _

_Mistakes happen, and miscarriages are natural. This isn't my fault. _

I press my wrapped hand to my center and wait, somewhat praying that it comes back clean, but mostly urging it to be soaked in blood.

When I look, I'm only more confused. The toilet paper is neither clean nor soaked, but spotted and a tad smeared. The blood isn't dark, but light red. I wipe again, and I come up with the same result.

Then the pain in my uterus stabs me, feeling much more violent than it did before. And I wish I could say I pick up my phone because I'm entirely worried about the baby, but I can't. I'm worried about myself, too. I'm bleeding when I'm not supposed to be, and I'm scared. I'm terrified because I'm clueless.

Edward picks up after the first ring. "What, Sail?" he asks, obviously annoyed.

I drop the toilet paper into the toilet bowl, stand up, pull on my shorts, and wash my hands, all without saying a word.

"Are you there?" he asks, impatiently.

I hold my phone between my ear and my shoulder. I'm hot. I'm sweating. I'm about to cry. "I'm bleeding," I finally say.

He sighs. "Paper cut?" he asks sarcastically. "Did you trip and fall again?"

I open the bathroom door. "No," I respond bitterly. "Out of my piranha pussy, you jerk."

I'm too upset to tiptoe back to my room. Not that Charlie would hear me. Not that he's even coherent. Not that he would ever stop worrying about himself long enough to realize there's something wrong here. That there always has been. That I'm the kid, not the parent.

It's funny how these things come to light when you need someone to blame for your fuck ups.

"Is it bad?" Edward asks. His tone is thick with concern. "Does it hurt?"

Back inside my bedroom, I leave the overhead light off and turn the bulbs around my bed posts on. My room ignites with a soft-yellow glow that gives me no other choice but to calm, taking the edge off my nervousness. But I'm too far gone and too scared, and I start to cry despite how hard I'm trying not to.

"It hurts. I've felt small cramps all day, but I didn't think it was that bad," I say, climbing onto my bed. I sit with my back against the headboard, and in an effort to self-soothe, I bring my knees to my chest and hug myself.

Edward's voice rises a little. "Since this morning? When you were throwing up?" he asks.

I nod and answer. "Yeah."

Angrily, he replies, "And you didn't say anything?"

"I didn't know," I respond defensively. "This is new to me, too, you know."

Ten minutes later, Smirks is in my bedroom, tossing a sweater and a pair of shoes on my bed. "Get dressed," he stresses.

His van is running in the driveway behind my truck with the driver's door open, like he jumped out as soon as he pulled up. The Volkswagen's oversized headlights shadow the pickup on the chipped white garage door. Rebuilt but not quite dependable, the rattling engine is normally accompanied with better times: cruising and sunshine and ocean blue. But this time, it's associated with a dread that only Edward and I will share together.

As I'm locking the front door, keeping Charlie in more than keeping anyone out, I can't help but deem that my fixer and I are living some type of defining moment. There's something wrong with me—something is happening—and what if this is the only opportunity we get to end this? This might be my body's way of confirming that I physically cannot have a baby. I'm too small; I'm too young; I'm not smart enough.

When the deadbolt turns, I pivot and almost walk right into Edward, who's waiting at my side. This sweet boy is a good foot taller than I am, so I have to look up to meet his grey eyes. The bill of his hat casts a shadow over his face, causing the angles of his jaw and nose to seem a little sharper in the moonlight shining down on the front porch.

"Ready?" he asks.

I nod, but I feel like I should say something before he takes me to the hospital. We haven't had time to talk about the pregnancy, so I don't know how he feels, but there's no doubt in my mind that not having this baby would only benefit us both. And if we go to the ER and they save it only for us to abort it in a few weeks, wouldn't it be better now? It only becomes more human as times goes by—every day. There has to be some good in that. Dr. Viola said sooner was better than later. This is sooner. This is right now.

Besides, if I let him take me to the hospital, someone might recognize us...

Edward reaches forward and cleans away the sadness from my under my eyes before they drip down my cheek. He wipes his thumb dry on his jeans.

"What's the matter?" he asks.

I look away, ashamed I'm even having these thoughts. "It's just, if we're not going to keep the baby anyway..."

My partner in crime takes a step back, cutting me off. I feel like shit. Like dirt. I'm pathetic.

But Edward surprises me by lifting his cap from his head and placing it on mine, almost covering my eyes with his black too-big-for-me Obey hat. With messy hat-hair, Smirks smiles. He tilts my chin up so I can see his face and says, "I'm not worried about that shit right now, Sail."

I cry a little more. "But..."

His hand remains under my chin. "What if you're bleeding to death? I'm not going to let you bleed until you die."

I crack a smile.

I'm perfectly able to get into the van by myself; I've been climbing in and out of this thing for the last two years, but Edward insists on helping me up. First, he opens the door; it creaks and whines and rust dusts from the hinges. Next, Smirks holds my elbow and gives me a shove from the back as I'm crawling onto my seat.

"You just wanted to touch my ass," I accuse teasingly.

He smirks.

Then, he fastens my seat belt. Which isn't so bad, because he has to lean over me, and he smells like boy, and he feels buff, but I snap out of it.

"I'm not dying." But I am an asshole, because our baby might be.

He ignores me, and once I'm securely in my place, he closes the door and walks around the front of the bus, past the lights that cast his shadow on the garage, to the driver's side door, which is still open. With ease, Edward slides into his seat and turns the stereo up. Wyclef is singing through the speakers that he'll be gone 'til November while Edward buckles in. Then he's backing the van out of my driveway. The sounds of tires running over sand and old Volkswagen parts shifting are so familiar they feel perfect. I sink into my oversized seat and relax some, even though that point one percent is starting a riot with my will.

The temperature change is noticeable the further Edward drives the van away from La Push into Forks, where the hospital is. The air becomes thick and humid, and the heat increases the further away we get from the sea. I fan my face with my hand, but it doesn't offer much relief. I turn the handle on the door until the window is all the way down, but the wind coming in feels like a blow dryer. I lift Edward's hat from my head and place it on my lap so I can take my sweater off. I'm still in the tank top I wore to work today. It smells like chocolate and taffy, and it's sticking to my skin like Velcro. I peel damp cotton away from my chest in a desperate attempt to cool off, but I'm still hotter than a spanked baby's ass.

Too soon.

Gathering and twisting my dark blonde hair into a bun at the base of my head, I put Edward's hat back on, letting the twirl of strands unravel inside the cap. A few stray waves escape the sides, and some of my bangs peek out from beneath the bill, but having all of it off of my neck is amazing.

The drive from the beach to the next town over is only about twenty minutes. La Push and Forks are neighboring towns, but the lifestyles are completely different: We're beach bums, and they're loggers. Forks is full of sleepy old people and men with beards, like Remington's dad, and La Push is full of surfers and heads, like my dad. They live in the woods, and we live by the ocean. They have a Walmart, and we don't. They have a slightly larger population, but so what? We're way cooler.

Literally.

I don't give a shit if this town is surrounded by gigantic trees; it's hotter than the hinges of Hell.

Edward must notice my obvious discomfort. He mumbles, "Heat wave."

For a moment, I think he's singing the Martha and the Vandellas song our parents used play when we were kids, but then I remember I'm sitting in a puddle of my own sweat and simply agree. "No kidding."

I kick my feet up and stick them out the window, crossing my elongated legs at the ankles. The untied laces of my favorite green Chucks flap in the wind, flicking my calf with the plastic pieces at the ends every so often.

It's as comfortable as I'm going to get.

Somewhere in the middle of my search for cool air, Smirks rolled down his window, too. The cab of the van is filled with warm air, and the radio is impossible to hear over the _whoosh_ coming through the openings. We're only a couple of miles away from Forks General, and without the distraction of the suffocating heat, I'm getting nervous again.

I feel his eyes on me.

Under the small refuge his hat offers, I meet his stare.

Edward's eyes seem dark, bottomless, and thoughtful, and I know he must have millions of questions and worries coming together in his mind like an assembly line. This boy and I don't have any big plans for life after high school. Neither one of us plan on going away for college; nor do we share dreams of moving out of Washington at all. We'd like to surf the waters in Hawaii and ride our skateboards down the sidewalks in Venice Beach, and we'd like to go to Cancun for spring break, but we don't aspire higher than that.

Vacationing is one thing, but moving away from La Push is another, and I couldn't do it. It's our home, and our parents' home before us, and their parents' home before them. Carlisle, Esme, and Charlie want to retire sometime in the next twenty years, and it'll be up to Edward and me to run their businesses. I want _Charlie's_ to be mine one day. I'd like to expand it—sell more, make more. Maybe I'll take a few business classes at the community college. I'd like to renovate and update our house, and I want it to come with one of those vacuums that are in the walls so I can suck up sand without sweeping or using that stupid Dirt Devil my dad got me.

They might not be typical, but those are my goals. As small as they are, having a baby makes achieving them difficult. Edward must know that. It's probably what he's thinking about.

And I haven't really considered marriage and kids at all, and I've honestly never put much thought into my relationship with Edward either. He's just one of the people I've assumed will always be a part of my life, not realizing he'll probably want a family of his own in the future. He's had lots of girlfriends, and he claims he loves Dani, but one day he'll really fall in love with someone. He'll get married and he'll have kids, and it will be separate from me.

The idea of that kind of destroys me.

Now, there's this baby. And I'm noticing the way he smells and looks and feels, and I don't know how I've never factored him into my future as more than best friends.

It's because teenagers are stupid.

We're all so fucking lame.

We're too busy scoring booze, complaining about the sand, and fucking on the front seats of Chevys to pay attention to anything else, like life.

"You're staring at me," I finally say.

The father to my child is so cool. His van with its new white leather interior is cool; his oversized vintage wood-rimmed steering wheel is cool; the way he holds it with both hands at the bottom, palms up is cool. And the way he says, "I'm not," out of the corner of his mouth with the best smile ever is cool, too.

Forks General is the only hospital from here to Port Angeles. When we arrive, the parking lot is full. It would be naive to assume that out of all of these cars, we won't know at least one of the owners. Of course we don't have to tell anyone but the staff I'm pregnant, but if we do run into a familiar face, I'm sure they'll wonder why I'm here with Edward instead of my father.

Edward eventually finds a spot on the far side of the lot. He drives his van into the vacant space, puts the stick shift into neutral, and presses on the emergency brake. Before he turns the engine off, his bus backfires. Three times.

It sounds like his Volkswagen is coughing up a lung or doing a drive-by.

I lower my legs from the window and laugh. "Your van is so gangster, Edward."

He kills the motor.

It backfires one more time.

I unbuckle my seatbelt. "All the other cars are so afraid," I joke.

He's rolling up his window when he looks over at me with an amused smile. "Very funny, Sail."

"What?" I ask, playing innocent. "It's protecting its turf."

Smirks gets out.

I shout as he closes his door, "You live by the gun, you die by the gun!"

I can see him laughing as he walks around the back of the van. I slip out of my seat, and he's already at my side.

"Or in this case," I say. "You live by the backfire, you die by the backfire."

He puts his arm over my shoulders. "You're a fucking comedian."

.

.

.

The Emergency Room is as hectic as I expected it to be. Every chair in the small waiting room is filled: a mother with her sick baby, a man with an obvious broken nose, an elderly man sitting in a wheelchair against the far wall with his cane on his lap. And then there are unique situations only a beach town and logging community can offer: unbelievably long splinters and log-crushed limbs; a sunburn that's so bad it's purple, and a young tourist puking into a grocery bag. My guess is that he either drank too much, or he ate the fish sticks at Diner by the Sea.

Locals know not to touch the fish sticks.

We've all made the mistake once in our lives.

A flat screen hangs from the corner of the room, playing the ten o'clock news to a room that's too unwell or too troubled to listen. I do my best to concentrate on what the anchor is reporting, trying to divert myself away from the overwhelming scent of sickness and the disgusting sound of that dumb-shit tourist throwing his guts up.

His even dumber girlfriend rubs his backs and says, "Get it all out; you'll feel better."

I should punch her, and I should tell her boyfriend to stop being such a pussy.

"You okay?" Edward whispers into my ear from behind.

I lean back into his chest a little more, in a slight attempt to hide. My fixer tightens his arms around my chest and sets his chin on the top of my head. I hold on to his wrists, and we waddle-walk in this position as the line to sign in moves up.

When we finally make it to the window, the woman who handles my intake papers is annoyed and I'm ready to run, but Edward reins us both in. He slides my insurance card over, explains to the fed up window lady that I'm Bella Swan—with one L—and that I don't feel well, and then he smirks.

Her panties drop.

So does my jaw.

But it gets the job done. After a quick lie about my dad being out of town and my mom being dead, which is not a lie, the no-longer-annoyed window girl says, "You don't need a parent, sweetie. Just add your father's information."

She gushes at my baby daddy.

"Oh, okay," I respond too cheerfully. "What's your dad's name?" I ask.

She looks at me like she's unclear, but slowly answers, "John, but…"

I write it down where my pop's name goes. "And his last name?" I request, smiling.

Her previously dropped panties bunch right back up when she realizes what I've done, and Edward pulls me away by my elbow.

Thankfully, there's an open seat away from the binge-drinking, fish-stick-eating tourist, but there's only one. Edward takes it and pulls me on his lap. This earns us a few unnerving looks from the other patients around us, but I don't recognize any of them, so whatever.

These intake papers are not much different than the ones I filled out at Planned Parenthood. Only this time I have Edward staring over my shoulder as I mark my family history and my current condition. When I put a blue-ink check mark in the pregnant box, Smirks sits back and starts watching the news.

Once all of the paperwork is complete and returned, we wait.

And we wait.

And we wait.

I watch as the people who were here before us are called back, including the old guy and the tourist; and I watch as new patients arrive, including a man with a head injury and a husband and wife with their baby. People are coughing and crying and becoming frustrated because we have to wait for so long. Edward gets up after an hour or two and buys us a Coke and a bag of chocolate chip cookies to share out of a vending machine. Twenty minutes later, I have to pee. My fixer offers to come with me, but I don't want to lose our seat, so I go alone.

I'm still spotting.

On my way back to Edward, I run into the lady and her husband with their baby. She doesn't seem to notice I've even bumped into her. Her newborn child is bundled up in her arms; she's carefully rocking it back and forth. It's crying. It's screaming its head off—wailing. The husband has his hands locked behind his neck, and he paces. The woman's cheeks are red and her eyes are consumed with burden. As I pass, she glances hopelessly at her husband, who looks hopelessly back at her.

I'm back in Edward's arms, rolled up on his lap, with my cheek against his chest. I don't want to offend the couple with the sick baby, but the baby won't stop crying. It's a continuous howl that breaks only when all of the air leaves its tiny lungs. Then it sucks in a breath and it starts all over again. As subtly as I can, I hold my hands over my ears; Edward places his hands over mine. It's like I can still feel it, though. That baby's discomfort is in the air, making the entire waiting room edgy. A few people get up and walk outside. Another child starts to cry. I can tell a couple of patients are sympathetic, but most act like me, like that baby is a huge problem.

And that could be my life.

I might be that lady holding that crying baby in less than a year.

Finally, my name is called.

My vitals are taken, and my body is weighed. I'm asked a few questions about my health and about the baby. I don't know much, though.

"When did the bleeding start?" the intake nurse asks. He's taking my blood pressure.

"This morning," I answer.

Edward stands beside my chair, noticeably uneasy. His hands are in his pockets, and his lips are in a tight line.

I can still hear the baby crying.

We're lead to a bed where only a curtain attached to the ceiling offers us any privacy. The tension I felt in the waiting room has most definitely accompanied me back here; it's making things with Edward awkward. Not that I expect him to lie on the bed with me, but I feel like he's being purposefully distant. With his phone in his hands, he's sitting in the chair at the end of the bed. Edward's knees are spread and he's sunken into his seat, carelessly. I don't know who he's texting at one in the morning, but I hope it's not Dani.

The intake nurse closed the curtain around us after we were settled in, so it's only me, this boy, and our problem. I can hear the other patients, but the silence between us is booming.

"Who are you texting?" I ask.

"Felix," he responds, not even looking up.

"What are you saying?"

Edward drops his phone in his lap. He doesn't sit up or give me his attention, though. He just leans his head back and closes his eyes. His phone goes off again, signaling an incoming message. He ignores it.

"Are you going to check it?" I ask.

Edward doesn't acknowledge the text, but his eyes open, and dark grey irises explain without words how afraid my lifelong pal really is. In an offbeat way, his unease is consoling. He cares, and I care, and this is scary.

"I'm sorry I called your pussy a piranha," he whispers, probably so no one can hear.

I smile, kind of hiding my face in the small pillow the hospital provides. "I'm sorry I called your hang down lowdown."

Edward sits up, covering his face as he laughs. "What?"

"And I'll go ahead and apologize for James, too. She called you Edward Scissormouth."

He smirks. "Funny."

The doctor, an older man with black-rimmed glasses and hair the color of pumpkins, pulls the curtain back. I'm immediately reminded of that cartoon with the kid who's a mad scientist: _Dexter's Laboratory._ I giggle at my own stupid thoughts, wondering if this man has a secret place filled with wild inventions. If he does, I hope he has one that can turn back time. I'd love to go back to the night of my birthday.

The juvenile chime of my giggle causes Dr. Dexter's Laboratory to look up. He quickly glances back to my chart before doing a double take and looking at me again.

Yeah, I'm seventeen and those papers in his hand say I'm pregnant.

Dr. Laboratory, whose real name is Dr. Hurt, quickly alters his facial expression from shaken to professional. I doubt I'm the first or youngest knocked-up teen he's seen in here, but I can't imagine it ever gets less disappointing. Depending on how things go, I better get used to the off looks.

I sit up. "Dr. Hurt?" I point at his name tag.

He sets my chart down, gives Smirks a once-over, and nods with a small, impersonal smile. "Yeah, sometimes it's true."

"Like now?" I ask.

"Depends," he says. "Can you tell me what's going on?"

He smells like all doctors do: rubbing alcohol, ink, and long waits. It's all I can concentrate on as I tell him about Planned Parenthood and the fall and the cramps and the bleeding—why do doctors always smell like blue pen ink?

"And I just went to the restroom before I came back here and I'm still spotting," I finish.

The doctor nods, and Edward stands up, joining me at my side. Dr. Hurt's game face slips and his let down—probably in shitty teens overall—shows. I gotta give it to him, though. Baby daddy and I probably look pretty absurd. We're sticky from sweat, a little bit sunburnt, worn out, and far too young. But Edward wears a scowl that screams disobedience, like he knows everything, as if he isn't just another punk kid who fucked-up. And then there's me: blonde, skinny, typical, in this boy's hat … clueless.

I should be embarrassed, but I'm not. I want Dr. Dexter's Laboratory to fix me or not fix me. Either way, I'm sick and tired of waiting for answers.

Like Dr. Receptionist Lady, Dr. Hurt presses around on my stomach. It erases the grimace from Smirks' face, too. The same questions are asked, and mostly the same answers are given.

"It doesn't hurt, Dr. Hurt." I'm a fucking comedian.

After another series of questions about the fall we took on the skateboard, Edward and I are informed that an ultrasound has been ordered.

"We'll have more definitive answers after that, but I think you're fine," Dr. Dex mumbles, scribbling like doctors seem to do. "You're young and your body is going through a huge change. Some bleeding is usual."

Finally, Edward speaks up. "How much bleeding?"

Dr. Laboratory's eyes magnify under his huge glasses. He blinks. "Some spotting here and there. Her cervix is expanding, and are you guys still having sex?"

Edward and I both give Dr. Hurt bitch face.

I mean, we had sex … twice. But are we _still_ having sex? Like, will we do it again? A third time? I don't know. Why is he asking?

Perv.

Dr. Hurt sighs. "Have you had sex in the last twenty-four hours?"

Edward nods.

"That can cause bleeding, too. Cramping in the first trimester is also normal, but to be safe, I ordered the ultrasound, okay?"

"Okay," I whisper.

It's an hour before Edward and I are led into another room. I don't bother with the ultrasound tech's name. I just climb on the bed and lift the hem of my tank top like I'm asked to, exposing my stomach. The roundness I thought I saw earlier, and then un-saw when it was convenient, is for sure there now. It's not much, hardly anything at all, but Edward sees it, too.

He takes my hand.

The lady applies a layer of cold, clear gel over my lower abdomen before she asks me if I'm ready.

"I am," I say lowly.

And then she's pressing this wand to my stomach, and she's looking at the screen. I can't tell what is what, but I know somewhere, in static-looking black and white, is our baby.

It's unreal. And it's sad. And I start to cry.

Edward presses his lips to my knuckles just like he did when I told him I was pregnant. Back and forth, his kisses move along my fisted hand, warm and soft and needed.

The ultrasound machine makes a clicking noise, like she's taking pictures. On the keyboard beneath the screen is a ball that rolls under her palm as she moves it around. She's quick and wordless, and I can't tell by looking at her face if the images she's staring at are good or bad.

But her eyes meet mine, and she sighs. "Do you want me to show you?" she asks.

Edward's lips pause on my knuckles.

The unsteadiness in my heart and the spinning in my stomach tell me I should say no. Why should I see something I might kill? But I'm curious, and it's mine, and the point one percent that wants to keep whatever it is inside of me forces the small, "Yes," to pass my lips.

She moves the screen over so Edward and I can see better. I still don't know what to look for; it all looks like static to me, but she points.

In the center of the screen is a small ball of black, and in the center of the ball of black is an even smaller mass of white.

"That's your baby," the ultrasound tech says.

Edward sits up. Our hands stay connected. "That's it?" he asks. "That … smudge?"

The ultrasound tech kind of laughs. "Yep. It's small now, but give it some time."

I can't stop looking.

I can't help but feel connected.

She probably thinks she's being kind, but I'm hesitant to take the images she prints out for us.

"You can have them," she insists. "Babies are blessings."

Her attitude is much different from the doctor's, and because she's so nice, and because I deserve every part of the pain I feel, I take them. Once my stomach is cleaned off, we're led back to the bed and curtain we started out at. Dr. Hurt comes back and explains to Edward and me that everything is fine. I apparently need to take it easy for a while—stay off my feet.

"These are trying times," Dr. Hurt says, handing over a handful of pamphlets to Edward. "You have many options. There are support groups and programs for teenagers in your situation."

My situation: fucked.

.

.

.

I stare at the ultrasound pictures the entire ride home. It's near impossible to believe this tiny thing is inside of me, growing. It's not much, and I can't make out the nose, mouth, and ears, but I can see the shape of its head and the form of its body. It's an actual thing. It exists.

Edward doesn't bother asking me if I want to go home or not. He's in as much shock as I am. My fixer pulls the bus into its spot in the driveway and shuts the engine off. I follow him into his house through the garage. The home is dark and sleeping, and the air still smells like whatever it is Esme made for dinner—fried something.

The Cullen household is nicer than Charlie's and mine. It's well organized and has nice things. The couches are new and the TV is big. Esme had an air conditioner installed a few years back, so it's never muggy or overly hot. I can't see much through the dark, but I know there are pictures of Edward all over the place, and of me and James. Esme collects Coca-Cola memorabilia, which isn't exactly beach couture, but it's cool. The kitchen is coated in Coke stuff, and it's slowly starting to spread to the rest of the house.

Their hardwood floors are still sandy, though. There's no getting away from that.

Just like me and Charlie, Edward's room is separated from his parents' by the restroom. We're quiet as we pass by; I can hear Carlisle snoring. Smirks pushes open his bedroom door and waits for me to pass before he follows me in and closes it again. He doesn't bother with the light or the TV. I grab a tee shirt from his dresser and change, not really caring if he looks or not.

His clean clothes make me feel better right away. Although the sadness I feel is deep-rooted and thick. I place the ultrasound images on the nightstand and slip under Edward's covers. He joins me a few moments later. We don't touch, but we're near. I love his bed. His sheets are better than mine, even if only because they're his and they smell like beach boy.

It takes me a while, but I slowly start to drift. It's not heavy, and I'm partly awake. My thoughts are littered with little white masses and choices to make. My heartbeat is slowing and my breathing is even. I have my palm over my stomach and dreams within reach. I'm almost there. I'm near peace when Edward says, "Bella, we can't have this baby."

My only answer is a sleepy, "I know."


	9. Abomination

**I do not own Twilight. If I did, Edward would have driven a Volkswagen. **

**Huge thanks to my betas and pre-reader. Trust me when I say they have a good time at my expense. My typos are ridiculous sometimes. All of the time. **

**And of course, my readers. You guys make this a lot of fun. I appreciate and love all of the support you give. You're a huge part of the writing process, and because of you, I really have become a better author. **

**Remember Closer? Yeah, me neither. **

**Quick Note: If any of you are Dusty readers, a futuretake has been written and given to The Fandom for LLS in support of cancer research. The teaser is currently up on their blog. **

**Statistics: **

_The daughters of teen moms are three times more likely to become teen mothers themselves. _

_Sons of teen mothers are twice as likely to become incarcerated. _

**.**

**.**

**.**

**Chapter Eight**

I wake up before Edward, but I don't do anything cheesy like watch him sleep or push his hair from his face. I don't snuggle up close to his side or hide my nose in his neck. I don't reach for his hand under the blankets—which are body-heat warm—to intertwine our fingers. I grab my clothes, my shoes, and the ultrasound pictures, and I sneak out of his room like a thief in the night. Or more accurately, early morning.

I get as far as the living room before I turn around and revisit his bedside.

With my belongings bundled under my arm, I carefully rip free one of the ultrasound images and leave it under his cell phone for him to find when he wakes up. He can look at it while he's alone. I'm sure he'll have a better chance of wrapping his mind around our situation in my absence.

And maybe I do brush a few strands of auburn hair from his forehead.

I'm a sucker for boys in Dreamland.

Pantless, barefoot, and in one of Edward's shirts, I leave the Cullen house and make the short walk down to mine. It's only touching six in the morning; the tide is high and the sun is rising, transforming the dark blue night into an orange and pink dawn. Early soaring scavenger seagulls clutter the air and beach, looking for a meal. Surfers are on the water, taking advantage of the a.m. whitecaps. In a peaceful melody, the waves' breaks hit the shore. The fishing boats are long gone, yet the scent of bait and shellfish lingers in the cool sea-salty air.

My dad will be up soon, ready to open his shop for business. As will Carlisle and Esme, and Derek and Riley. Curtains will be opened, blinds will be lifted, doors will be opened—coffee pots will brew. Days will start. In a few hours, this entire town will be awake, soaking up summer, swimming in the ocean; working, not working, spending money—living.

Life does go on.

Enjoying the walk, I don't mind the sand under my toes too much this morning. For the first time in four days, I feel oddly optimistic and not at all alone. It's awfully premature and misplaced, and even wrong, but I want to relish in my good mood while it's here—while guilt simmers on low. Sometimes it has to be about the small things. I wake up near the sea every day. I have great friends. My father is insane, but he loves me. I have a home and a job and … I won't let a little sand ruin this for me.

Or the fact that Edward said we can't have this baby and I agreed.

It was a hazy agreement, and his acknowledgment might not even be remembered when his eyes open. That boy had a long day. Who knows what he was thinking, or better yet, not thinking. But he said it, and I needed him to be the first to admit out loud that we have no business being parents. It's so fucking selfish, because I've been thinking about it since three white sticks proved positive. But because Edward was brave enough to actually enunciate his feelings while I could only suffer in silence, I don't feel so accountable—as if it's his idea, not mine.

He said it first, and Smirks knows everything.

That means it's okay.

He's a fixer. _My_ fixer. So I'll let him fix this.

He said, "Bella, we can't have this baby." Who am I to challenge him?

I'm the kid's mom, I guess. But I can't think of it that way. I won't think of the fetus inside my body as a real person. If I do, aborting it becomes inconceivable. Immoral. I'll no longer be doing something that saves my life, but ends another.

That makes me evil.

And not panty-dropping evil.

Just plain evil.

Baby-murdering bad.

Worse than sand in bread.

As my feet step onto my lawn, I banish the thoughts from my mind. I refuse to consider myself as wicked; I'm a teenager. There's not a huge difference between the two, but my age allows room for error. That's explanation enough. That's reason enough.

I won't burn in Hell.

Teenagers are not allowed in Hell.

It's immoral.

And evil.

Worse than sand in bread.

Stepping up to the front door, I reach into the shorts I wore to the hospital last night and search the pockets for the house key. Just as my fingers are wrapping around nickel-plated brass, I hear the distinguishable tone of my father's voice. I know exactly what this means—it's a Rambling Charlie day—I press my ear to the door and listen. Against my cheek, I can feel the bass from the music through the wood, and I most definitely hear the gargle-shout thing Charlie does when he tries to sing.

Sans key, I turn the knob and open the door. I'm assaulted by the crashing of violins, guitars, trumpets, and Spanish lyrics, thanks to both the stereo and Charlie. The sun isn't even all the way up, but my dad's awake. Every window in the house is open, and the back door is gaping. My father—dressed in a white wife beater, dark blue Dickies, tube socks up to his knees, and a pair of black Nike Cortezs—looks like a skateboarding cholo. His longboard is on the kitchen counter, wheels up, and he's in front of the fridge, salsa dancing, singing Mariachi music.

"_Las altas y las chaparritas, las flacas, las gordas y las chiquititas, solteras y viudas y divorciaditas, me encantan las chatas de caras bonitas,"_ he belts, snapping his fingers above his head as he turns in a circle, eyes closed.

Then, with a deep breath, unaware I'm standing in the doorway, he goes off.

"_Aaaaaaaaaaaay ay ay ay ay ayyyyyyyyyyyyyy, ja ja ja ja ja ja!"_ Charlie stomps his foot, completing his Mexican yodel-scream thing.

As the song ends, and my father's performance is mostly complete, he opens the fridge and begins his hunt for something to cure his mad munchies, no doubt. I cross the living room, abandon my clothes on the couch and pick up Charlie's iPod that's attached to the out-of-date stereo system he has hooked up on our entertainment center.

His playlist is called _I'm High as Fuck._

And right on cue, just as the male behind my being dumps the ingredients for _chorizo con huevos_ on the counter, he shouts, "I'm high as fuck!"

Then he sees me.

"Hey, Dad," I greet.

Charlie stands straight.

The song shuffles to "Big Booty Hoes."

Charlie blushes. "That playlist isn't mine," he denies.

I turn the iPod off. "Sure," I tease, trying not to laugh.

My only parent, who's apparently "high as fuck," clears his throat. He straightens out his hair and pulls his wife beater tight. His stab at acting like he's not high as fuck, only makes it worse. He's lit, and his clip is still leaned against the kitchen window.

"It's not mine," Charlie continues. "It's … Carlisle's."

I smile. "It's your iPod, Pops."

He clears his throat again, blinking a lot. "I let him borrow it."

I nod my head, grinning. "Yeah?"

"How much did you see?" he asks, pushing some of his hair behind his ear.

I retrieve my belongings from the couch and head toward the hallway where my bedroom is. Before I go, though, I sing, "Ja ja ja!"

I'm only a few steps in, laughing, when Mr. High as Fuck calls out, "Where were you, girl?"

"Edward's!" I answer loud enough for him to hear.

Charlie replies, "Sail, you're not allowed to spend the night at Edward's unless you wear pants!"

The small things.

.

.

.

James and I usually don't go more than a day without seeing each other. We develop separation anxiety if we do; she starts to cry, and I question the meaning of life. It's weird, so we like to avoid long periods of time apart. We're BFFs.

Big fat friends.

Best friends forever.

Big foreva friends.

So it doesn't surprise me when my girl shows up halfway through my morning shift at Munchies, dancing Gangnam Style past the store window—she misses me.

This morning, after I was scolded by Charlie about sleeping over at the Cullens' without trousers, I took a shower and got ready for work. My stroll from my house to the candy shop was just as great as the first walk I took as the sun was rising from the East. Four hours later, I'm still riding on denial and optimism.

Teenagers. No Hell.

Bread. Sand.

Of course, the ultrasound images in my back pocket are hefty, weighing me down as my girl skips by. My mast continues to dance as she opens the door, letting in a blast of ocean air from outside. James, dressed in black bathing suit bottoms and a pink crochet tankini top, shuffles past the counter, singing, "Heeeeeyyy, sexy lady!"

Since Munchies is without customers at the moment, I jump onto the counter and wait for her dance to end. I remember when she was learning it. We watched the stupid video on YouTube a million times, and after falling twice and twisting her ankle three times, she got it down. I didn't think the limp she had for a week afterward was worth it, but my girl was happy. She has a slight obsession with fad-dance.

"So," James says, a little out of breath. She lifts her sunglasses to the top of her head. "I was watching Harlem Shake videos while you were busy humping Edward the other night, and I think we should make one."

Thank goodness Esme and Carlisle aren't here yet.

"Of course you do," I answer, smiling.

James takes a seat in the booth against the wall. "Ocean-beach themed," she says, like it's the best, most obvious idea ever.

My girl smells like sunblock and water, and her skin is already blotchy from being under the sky for too long. She must have had an early surf lesson this morning. Her outside job makes me insane with jealousy. Not that I don't mind being surrounded by sugar all day; I've had my share of Swedish Fish in the last few hours.

James continues, "Since I'm awesome, I'll dress up as a shark. And since sharks are masters of the ocean, or whatever, I'll dance first, like, by myself. At the break, you guys can all come in. Felix can be seaweed or a killer whale or a towel. Edward can be a seahorse, or plankton, or something pussy like that. And you"—she beams—"when your stomach starts getting round, we can paint it to look like a beach ball."

My face falls, and I look down. "Well, that's not going to happen," I say lowly.

"But, I thought you and Edward…" James drifts off, confused.

I slip off the counter and reach into my back pocket, retrieving the ultrasound pictures. I hold them out for her to take. "I had to go to the hospital last night, James."

She stands up. "Sail! Why didn't you call me?" She takes the images and gasps. "Did you…"

I shake my head, already knowing her question. "No. Everything is fine, but I don't think we're going to keep it."

My best pal's looking at the pictures, but she doesn't know what she's seeing. "What am I looking at?" she asks, puzzled.

I point to the black smudge in the center. "There. That's it. That's my baby."

Jamie's eyes gloss over and her cheeks pink, and right as her lips are parting to say something, the bell above the door chimes. Esme and Carlisle walk in, but they're too involved in what they're talking about to notice James shoving the ultrasound pictures at me. Crumpled and not folded, I push the two imageries back into my pocket. Immediately, I want to pull them back out and fold them correctly. These might be the only pictures I have of my little one. I don't want them ruined or creased.

I leave them, though.

"Hey, girls," Esme greets as she strides by.

I smile. James waves.

My best girl touches my hand. "I have to get back to work, Sail. Call me when you get off, okay?"

I can see what a struggle it is for her to act like everything's fine. There's so much to discuss; I want to tell her about the bleeding and the cramping, and the baby in the ER that wouldn't stop crying. She should know about the disapproving doctor, and the sympathetic tech. I should tell her that not keeping this child is Edwards's idea because he said it first. But Esme only walked to the back office, and Carlisle is behind the counter. He has to make fudge today, so he's gathering the ingredients in preparation. It might seem like he's not paying attention to me and James, but he is. We don't call him Ninja Ears Cullen for nothing.

Charlie, Esme, and even James' parents are a little ignorant. As long as we don't get arrested, die, or get pregnant, we're fine. I'm sure in their eyes, we could never be as bad as they were, anyway. They used hard drugs and ran amuck, which resulted in a bunch of teenagers getting married and having kids they forgot about.

Carlisle isn't so passive, though. He's just as guilty as the rest of them; I remember Carlisle during their party days, too. He used to let Edward and I sip on his beer, and I saw him have a nosebleed or two. He and Charlie used to fist fight with tourists regularly; they were arrested a handful of times. Esme may have been beautiful back then, but now she has a deviated septum and ulcers that still bother her. And my mom—she's dead.

So while the other parents just hope we learned from their mistakes and trust us, Carlisle eavesdrops and snoops, forcing us on the straight and narrow if he ever suspects us wandering off the beaten path.

Well, he gives a good effort.

"Think about it a little more," James whispers before she leaves. My girl doesn't dance out like she did coming in, and I can tell by the hang in her head she's upset.

"Everything good?" Carlisle asks. His deep, soothing voice commands my attention.

Nothing like Charlie, Carlisle is clean-cut and the stereotypical beach boy. He's tall and in mostly great shape, with a slight beer belly that he doesn't blame on too many brewskis, but too much of Esme's fried foods. He shares dark grey eyes with his son, but unlike Edward, Carlisle's hair is dark golden-brown. It's in need of some keratin, but that's normal; my father's best friend spends a lot of time in the ocean. His skin is dark from the sun, and he speaks with a slight surfer accent he acquired as a kid.

In black old school Vans, khaki shorts, and a white tee, I can see Edward looking just like his pops when he's thirty-five.

And I'm not complaining.

Leaning on the bit of optimism I'm still gripping on to, I do my best to bury the sadness James left me with deep down. With a smile on my face and some enthusiasm in my voice, I turn and say, "Yep."

My unborn—might not be born at all—kid's grandfather, ties an apron with "I put the shama lama in the ding dong" written across it around his waist. I might have spoken with too much eagerness, because he isn't convinced.

Carlisle lights the flame under the copper kettle. "Did you sleep at my house last night, Sail?"

I sit back behind the register. My face flushes. "Yeah."

A lady and her kids walk into Munchies, saving me from whatever Carlisle was going to ask next. From the look on his face, he's trying to put two and two together. Obviously he would never guess the truth, but he's reaching. Maybe Charlie told him I wasn't wearing any pants when I got home this morning. Carlisle probably thinks James and I were whispering about boys when he and Esme came in, preferably his boy.

I sit on my stool and watch as the mother tries to calmly scold her children for overfilling their candy bags. She doesn't want to embarrass herself, but it's clear she wants to smack the shit out of them. The kids, two boys, are all red faced and in no need of more sugar, and the mom, with fire behind her eyes, speaks between clenched teeth.

"Put some of that back—now!" she scolds.

They don't listen, those little bastards. She should smack them. Parenting is hard.

I hope my kid doesn't turn out like these…

I sit up straight, shaking the thought from my head. "Carlisle, can I have the rest of the day off?"

He's in the middle of pouring sugar and cocoa powder into the kettle. "Yeah, sure, Sail. Esme and I can handle it here."

I jump off the stool. "Thanks."

As I'm hanging up my apron, Carlisle adds, "Edward said he was driving up to the cove. Maybe you can call him."

I grab my backpack from under the counter. The mother has finally lost her patience and screams, "Put the fucking candy back!"

It happens all of the time, so Carlisle and I go on like nothing is out of the ordinary.

Edward was actually where I was headed. I knew he didn't have a shift at Charlie's today, but I didn't know he was taking the bus for a drive.

"Okay. I will," I say, hugging the man who's treated me like his daughter all my life. "I'll see you later."

As I open the door to leave, Carlisle's voice rises above the jingle of the bell. "Are you dating my kid, Bella?"

His smile is ridiculous.

"Have you finally realized you need to go with your own kind?" he adds.

I roll my eyes. "I'm still with Remington, Carlisle."

It's a half-truth, but whatever. There can't be any kind of attention on Edward and me. Especially from Ninja Ears Cullen. Because, let's face it, Carlisle is thirty-five, and his ears aren't what they used to be. He has selective hearing; he only hears what he wants to hear. Charlie probably told him I stayed the night and came home in one of Edward's shirts, but Carlisle took it as Smirks and I being deeply in love and making babies.

Which is kind of right, but beside the point.

If he even starts to think that his son and I are an item, he'll tell Esme, Charlie, and the Masts, and then everyone will know, and it'll be a thing. A rumor started by our parents.

Carlisle shrugs. "You'll smarten up."

I laugh, and I go.

.

.

.

It didn't take me long to find Edward. When his dad told me he drove up to the cove, I knew which one. The bay is small enough to remain hidden from the public, but large enough for us to paddle surf and kneeboard when we want some water to ourselves: low-key.

It's a local secret, and my boy is the only one around.

I've been here for almost an hour. When I first drove up, Smirks was in the water, on his board, paddling around. He didn't hear or see me, so I stayed back in my truck to watch. His van's parked on the sand; the doors are open and the speakers are loudly singing, "_Princess on the steeple and all the pretty people." _Smirks in on the sand now, too, beside his board that's nose up. His feet are buried in the beach, and the top of his wetsuit is unzipped and gathered around his waist, exposing his back, chest, and arms to the sun. His hair was dripping when he first took a seat, but now it's sun dry and more copper than red thanks to the seawater.

After a few more minutes of watching this deep thinker, I get out of my truck to join him.

The sand is warm under my bare feet, but not hot enough to put my shoes back on. I'm wearing my suit under my clothes, but I'm not here to play in the bay with Smirks. I'm here so Edward and I can finally talk. The doctor said sooner rather than later, so if we're going forward with the abortion, I won't drag this out any longer.

I've left the last of my optimism in the front seat of my pickup.

The right side of Edward's mouth lifts when I sit beside him. "I was just thinking about you," he welcomes me. His tone is so sad.

Suddenly so, so blue, I scoot closer to lean my head on his shoulder. Smirks' skin is just as warm as the sand, and he smells like driftwood and salt. After a moment, I feel the pressure of Edward's head pressed against the top of mine. I find his hand and grip hard. I cry, and I don't care. Then his lips are where the pressure was, and I cry some more.

"Don't cry," he whispers between kisses. "Don't cry, Sail."

He is spectacular, really.

There's a heat behind his touch and desperation in his voice that wasn't there a few days ago. He wasn't for me, and I wasn't his, but now there's something in me that's equal parts Cullen and Swan, and I want it. I want him. And how are we supposed to end this?

I turn my head, hiding my nose in his neck like I didn't do this morning. Edward's lips press along my jaw, and my fingers push into his sides.

"Be here," I cry. "Be here for me."

And he replies, "What I said last night…"

"Edward," I sob into the skin of his throat.

"We don't have to. If that's not what you want, we don't have to."

But I shake my head, because yes, we do.

Then I'm being lowered to the sand, and Edward's lowering himself between me. He's kissing me again, and I'm thinking, _It took me too long to have these lips._ I wrap my legs around my partner in crime; the cold from his wetsuit is grounding and shocking, and it needs to come off.

Edward's hand sneaks under my shirt and snakes up my side. I suck on the side of his neck, and he tastes like my favorite things: sea, summer, and beach boy.

I can't wait. I circle my hips. I drop my head back and cry out. Edward's in a hurry to take my clothes off.

"Wait for me," he says.

Then there are fingers, and they're inside of me, and I am flying. A little pushing, and a little turning, and a little thumb and, "Yeah, like that," from this boy right near my ear.

My back arches from the sand. Red-orange colors the backs of my closed eyelids. I hold on to him, and I hold on to nothing.

The next thing I know, we're in the bus, and this scene is so familiar. Seven weeks ago Smirks and I were in the same positions: mostly naked, too far gone, undone. It's like a shot of cold water to the face, and as much as I like him in me, around me, on me, we can't.

What if this goes away once the baby is taken care of? He might not want to ever touch me again after I kill his kid; I might not want to look at him. We might hate each other. All of these confused feelings I have for him may fade.

We can't fuck our way through this. It would be taking advantage. It would be immoral, and it might be enough to send a couple of teenagers to Hell.

I slide my fingers through Edward's hair, through sand and sweat and auburn waves. I tilt his head back, pulling his lips away from my chest. Dark grey irises, heavy with lust, wait for my next move, not at all untrusting.

"What?" he asks through swollen lips. Edward breathes in through his nose, like it's the first real breath he's taken since I showed up.

"My heart is breaking," I admit, brokenheartedly.

The confession is enough to calm the mood and carry us down to sandy land. Edward reaches over my shoulder, to where his shirt is hanging on the back of the driver's seat. He slips it over my head, and I slide my arms where his arms usually go. After I'm covered up, Edward gets out of the van and pulls off the rest of his wetsuit. He's still hard under his black boardshorts, but neither one of us acknowledges it, even if it makes me smile some.

Smirks is way hot.

"Want to go?" my baby daddy asks.

I shake my head. "Let's stay for a while."

Whatever CD Edward had playing earlier ended, so he jumps into the front seat while I lie down in the back. He switches the disc and new tunes play, and at the same time, Edward and I both sing, "Wake up Maggie, I think I got something to say to you!"

Small things.

.

.

.

Forgotten hours, a long nap, and a sunset later, Edward and I are wrapped and cuddled in the back of the van, sleepy-eyed and grinning. We're still alone in the cove, but the heat has dissipated, and the tide is low. Stars light up the sky like millions of little candles. And for a moment, it's almost like nothing is wrong.

Then Edward shoots up, taking his body warmth with him. "Shit!" he curses, jumping out of his Volkswagen.

I smile, because I already know what's wrong. We fell asleep with the keys in the van's ignition. Which is fine as long as you start the engine once an hour, but we didn't. And just like I suspect, when Edward hops into the driver's seat and turns the key, nothing fires up.

Except Smirks' anger.

While he keeps turning the engine, like maybe the battery will come back from the dead and it'll start, I gather my things and slide the side door shut.

"Come on," I say. "We'll send the tow truck for it."

Sad, poor-boy Edward slams the palms of his hands on the oversized steering wheel. He'll never admit it, but his van is a hunk of shit. He's always working on it, and he's constantly replacing things. It's a never-ending cycle going nowhere; he fixes one thing, just for another part to break. Cosmetically, it's beginning to look nice, though. That has to count for something.

While Edward gets out of the bus, slamming the door, making sure all the windows are locked, I pick up a few of his things from the beach and walk up to my truck that is still hidden behind some trees.

My Chevy is beat, but it's dependable.

Edward should take note.

I toss his crap into the bed of my truck and slide behind the wheel to start it up. It fires right away, loud and angry and badass. There's power here. I should just monster truck it and run over Edward's stupid van. He'd thank me later.

Edward makes his way up with his board under his arm and a scowl on his face, and I flip the headlights on, illuminating his self-pity. He squints his eyes against the white light and walks past the truck, mumbling under his breath. While he's securing his surfboard in the back, I lean over and unroll the passenger's side window. As soon as it's down, I can hear Edward cursing at himself about his "stupid fucking van" and "stupid fucking headlights" and "stupid fucking girl did it on purpose."

I laugh. He's dumb.

When the angry version of Smirks tries to get into the truck, I shake my head and lock the door. "I don't think so," I say, laughing.

Edward reaches in through the window and unlocks the door. "Stop messing around, Bella."

I hold the door closed with the handle. Obviously, he's stronger than me, but he'll have to pull my arms off before I let him in.

"Nope. You're not getting in my pickup with that attitude," I say.

Edward drops his hands from the handle. "Are you serious?"

"Dead," I answer. "Get in the back with your board."

His jaw tenses and his nostrils flare. He's so cute, I could smack him. But he doesn't challenge me. Crazy over a Dead Battery just walks away and hops into the back of the truck. He sits against the back window, and he knocks against the glass when he's settled.

I smile and put my seatbelt on.

"Hold on!" I yell as I peel away from the side of the road, burning rubber.

I turn the steering wheel, directing the truck into a sharp U-turn. Edward slides from one side of the truck to the other, shouting, "Slow the fuck down!"

Once I'm on the highway, going straight, he's able to sit back again. He turns, looking at me through the glass. I watch him through my rearview mirror.

He flips me the bird.

I slam on my brakes.

He smashes his head on the window.

I laugh all the way home.

When we get there, and I pull into my driveway, Edward's bad mood over his broken-down van is gone, and he's not mad about smashing his face on the glass.

He puts his arms over my shoulders as we walk around the back of my house to the beach.

He laughs. "You're such a bitch."

I pinch his side.

When I drove past the Cullens' house, it was dark, but mine was lit up. Which only means one thing: Party at the Swans'.

Like I suspected, when Smirks and I come around the back, Carlisle's sipping a brew, Esme's grilling hamburgers on the barbeque, and my dad, who's sitting on a lounge chair smoking a doob, snubs it out as soon as he sees me.

"There you guys are," Dad says with his last hit seeping between his lips.

Edward and I part. I go to my father and sit on his lap, and Edward talks to his parents about his van. We eat, and we chitchat, and we laugh about Edward in the back of my truck. He has a small knot on his forehead that makes retelling the story so much better.

And while I'm sitting here with my family, I think, _I'll take care of the rest tomorrow._

Of course, tomorrow always comes.

.

.

.

"Thank you for calling Planned Parenthood Health Services—"

I cut her off. "I need to make an appointment."

"Have you been seen here before?"

In a small voice, I answer, "Yes."

"Well, you can always walk in, or we can set a date and time for you to come in."

"No," I reply. "I need to make an appointment for a…" I trail off.

"Sweetie," the voice says from the other side of the phone, "we're completely confidential, and we're here to help you, but I need you to tell me what you need."

"I'm pregnant." My voice cracks. "And I can't be anymore."

.

.

.

The procedure is scheduled for next Thursday.

In the meantime, my baby develops fingers and toes.

I hate James for telling me.

I don't tell Edward.

.

.

.

We let Felix in on our secret.

He laughs when I tell him it's not Remington's.

But he cries when we tell him we're not keeping it.

"Think about it a little longer," he suggests just like James did.

.

.

.

The week and a half between making the appointment and the appointment date goes by quickly. Going to work every day and acting like nothing is out of the ordinary is hard. I have a couple of episodes of morning sickness, which doesn't always happen in the morning. There's some more cramping, but the spotting has stopped. I swear my stomach is rounder, but James and Smirks promise nothing is noticeable.

I wear loose clothes anyway.

Edward and I don't spend nights together, and we haven't kissed or anything. But I still want him around, like, I crave him—his touch, his voice, his understanding. I think it's a pregnancy thing. Hormones or something. He digs it, though, and he stays as much as he can.

I know he's spent some time with Dani, and Remington eventually guilts me into going to the movies with him.

"You love me still, don't you?" Remi asks.

I just smile.

I have up days, when I'm secure in our decision, and I have down days, when I'm pretty sure I won't go through with it. I've been going back and forth, giving my friends whiplash. Finally, Edward gets mad and freaks out.

"You can't keep doing this, Bella!" he yells. "You're fucking with my head."

We don't continue to argue, though. Morning sickness that comes during the evening spins my stomach, and I throw up all over his shoes.

He and I both stare at his desecrated Chucks, and he asks, "What the hell did you eat?"

"Swedish Fish," I answer.

He throws the shoes away.

Yesterday was an up day, but today is a down day—it's also D-day.

James, Felix, Edward, and I got a story together and told all of our parents we were going to Wild Waves, a water park thirty minutes outside of Seattle. They bought it, thankfully, and it gets all four of us out of town without suspicion. Although, Edward and I are the only ones leaving. James and Felix will wait for us at Felix's house. His mom works nights, so we figure by the time we get back, she'll be gone. During the day, they'll be at the cove where Edward's truck broke down a week ago.

We leave early, before the sun comes up, and we take the truck because the van can't be counted on. Edward drives, and I sit beside him—right against him. The drive is long and quiet and heavy. I'm still going back and forth, only this time I don't fill Edward in with my thoughts. He's left the decision up to me, but I think I know what he prefers.

No one wants to be a parent at seventeen.

Not us, anyway.

By the time we arrive, I'm ready to cut myself out of my skin. I want to cry, and I want to scream, and I want this to be over.

This time Dr. Receptionist Girl, who's really the actual physician, isn't behind the window. This girl is younger, but just as compassionate.

"ID, please," she requests.

Edward stands behind me, with his hands in his pockets. I pull out my identification card and slide it over.

"Bella Swan, with one L," I say.

She nods and smiles. "You're right on time."

Abortions are actually really expensive, and I didn't want to chance using my health insurance in case they sent some kind of receipt or something to my dad, so we're paying cash. Well, Edward is. He's refusing to let me help pay at all, so I stand back while he hands over four one-hundred dollar bills.

His hands are shaking.

"You know where to wait, right?" the receptionist asks, handing over more paperwork.

I nod, and I take one of Edward's trembling hands before heading into the waiting room.

This time it's filled with girls of all ages, in all different stages of pregnancy. Some girls are alone, some have boyfriends with them, or parents. No one is smiling, but everyone kind of whispers amongst themselves. Smirks and I find a couple of seats in the front and take them. He breathes out and scrubs the palms of his hands up and down his face.

I commence filling out more health history forms.

"Thirteen," Edward whispers to me a few minutes later.

"What?" I ask.

"Including you, there are thirteen pregnant people here, and it's only nine in the morning, Sail." Edward looks around, staring. I elbow him.

"So?" I whisper.

"That's thirteen abortions_. Thirteen_." He's starting to panic. "And this is only one clinic."

I sigh. "Edward."

His dark eyes find mine. His cheeks are flushed. "They do this every other Thursday, and at nine in the morning there are already thirteen girls here. But this is done all day, so how many do you think they do a day, Bella? A hundred?"

"I don't know," I hiss, not wanting to talk about this.

"There are thousands of these clinics across this fucking country," he adds. "And look at some of these girls. Their stomachs are huge, and they're old enough."

"Please stop," I plead.

He nods his head toward this girl sitting against the wall. Her tummy is nice and round, definitely in her second trimester.

"She's old enough to have a baby," Edward accuses. "How old do you think she is, Sail? Twenty? Twenty-one?"

The girl looks over like she knows we're talking about her.

"Edward, stop," I insist.

He gets up. "I need to get some air."

I let him leave.

He comes back twenty minutes later; meanwhile, two more girls show up. My boy smells like nicotine and the Seattle wind. I feel bad, because he only smokes when he's stressed, which is rare for a guy who smirks all of the time.

He apologizes, and I accept, even though I think he's right. Some of these girls are too old and too far along to be here. I don't know their stories, but it seems really irresponsible on their parts.

Which makes me a hypocrite.

Times passes and all of my paperwork is turned in. People are called back, but no one ever returns. I wonder if they're sent out another door after their procedure so that the ones still waiting don't get scared. If they are, I'm grateful.

Edward is up and down; he takes a couple more trips outside for a smoke. I try holding his hand and tickling his arm, but nothing helps. Eventually, I just let him fidget. I'm surprisingly calm, more concerned about Edward than myself or the impending doom of our child. He's nervous enough for us both.

Finally, my name is called.

My heart drops. My eyes water. Edward grabs my arm. He doesn't let go.

He kisses my knuckles. "I love you," he mumbles.

I don't know if he's telling me or the baby, but either way, it fucks me up.

I pull my arm free and follow the nurse, holding back the scream trapped in my throat. I feel his eyes on me until the door closes, locking me on one side and keeping him on the other.

I'm weighed, and I'm measured, and my blood pressure is taken.

"You're fine. Everything will be okay," the nurse offers.

I immediately like her. She's comforting.

I'm asked to change into a paper gown, and once I do, I'm taken to another waiting room. Now it's only me and some of the other girls. The first ones I remember being called aren't here anymore, but I recognize the face of the girl Edward said was too old.

I get brave and ask her, "How old are you?"

My voice breaks the dreaded silence. A small TV is on, but no one dares to talk to each other … until I show up.

The girl gives me an odd look, like she's trying to figure out why I'm speaking to her. It makes me wonder if there is some kind of rule against it, and then I contemplate if she's been here before.

"I'm twenty-two," she finally answers.

I don't do a well enough job of keeping the disgust and shock from my expression. But really, I'm in the same spot she's in, so who am I to judge?

I don't ask any more questions. In fact, I keep my head down so I don't have to look at any of them either.

Once again, my name is called.

This time I'm taken to a small room with an examination bed in the middle. The stirrups are already up, and the bright lights you often see in surgery rooms are on and intense and hot. Dr. Receptionist Lady is here, and if she recognizes me, she doesn't let it be known. There are also a couple of other nurses, but they're too focused on setting up to bother with the next girl who's here to off her spawn.

I carefully get onto the bed. The paper wrinkles beneath my body weight. I'm not asked to put my feet in the stirrups yet, so I don't. First, Dr. Hansen asks a few questions.

"Your name?"

My heart is beating so hard and so fast. "Umm … Bella Swan, with one L."

She's writing things down, but this gets her attention. Dr. Receptionist Girl looks up; her attitude is momentarily softer than it was when I came, and as soon as our eyes meet, I know she remembers me.

It vanishes as soon as it shows up, and she returns to her professional demeanor.

"Age?" she asks.

"Seventeen," I answer with a shaky voice.

"Is this your first pregnancy?"

"Yes."

"And how far along are you?"

It takes me a moment, but I finally reply, "Ten weeks."

There are more questions, and I respond to them as best as I can, absentmindedly. Once everything appears to be in place and the questions are over, I'm told to lie back and put my feet up.

I do.

Tears fall from my eyes into my hair.

The lights up above seem brighter and hotter from this angle. My upper lip sweats and my hands shake harder than Edward's in the waiting room. Someone's informing me about the sedative they're going to inject me with and the anesthesia that will prevent me from feeling anything.

Stupidly, I ask, "What about the baby?"

For the second time today, I feel like I've broken some unsaid rule about talking during an abortion.

The nurse pats my shoulder and assures me I won't feel any pain. They haven't poked me with anything yet, but they're lifting up my paper gown, exposing my naked center.

"Move your bottom to the edge of the table, please," another nurse requests.

I do.

My heart is in my throat. I'm overheated. I'm going to puke.

I tell the nurse so.

She pushes blonde strands of hair away from my face. "The medicine will help you relax."

I lean my head back and close my eyes. I try to count my heartbeats, but it's flying too fast.

I'm quietly crying.

The nurse is trying to find a vein. "This will only pinch," she says.

Ten weeks: toes and fingers.

This baby has toes and fingers.

My heart. My heart. My heart.

I'm poked with the needle, and my eyes shoot open.

"Stop!" I cry.

The nurse pulls away as soon as the word leaves me. So does everyone else in the room, including Dr. Hansen.

I cover my mouth with my hands. "I'm sorry."

The nice nurse, the comforting one, pulls my hands away from my face. "You have nothing to be sorry about."

I can't get off the bed and out of the room fast enough, and I'm highly aware of my naked ass hanging out the back.

I don't give a shit.

After being led to a room where my belongings are, I change out of the gown and dress in my clothes I came in. There's nothing I can do to stop the tears leaving my eyes, or the tremble that's shaking my entire body, but I know this is right. I know this is the correct decision for Edward and me.

I can't kill something that's part him.

He's too spectacular.

And I don't know what this means … we have choices, but not this.

Abortion is not an option.

My shoelaces are tied and my shirt is on; I rip the ID bracelet from my wrist and leave. When I find the exit, I practically run out.

I was right; they send patients out a different way than where we came in. Everyone looks up at me, probably hoping I'm their girlfriend or wife or daughter, but I'm not, I'm Edward's best friend … and yeah, I'm his baby's mama.

Every face but his is ignorable. Our eyes catch, and as soon as they do, I quickly stride in his direction. He stands up, and going by his expression, he has to know something isn't right. I'm sure he's seen at least one other girl walk out of the same door I just left behind, and I doubt she was in any condition to move as fast as I am.

"Let's go," I plead once I reach him.

Edward takes my hand and leads me out the final exit.

As soon as we're outside, I lose it. I hyperventilate and wail and grab at Smirks. I'm circled and kept tight with him arms. He helps me walk—he practically drags me to my pickup truck. He lifts me in and pushes me into my seat. He tries to close the door so he can walk around, but I won't let him go, so he just climbs in.

"Tell me," he begs. "Tell me," he asks, scared.

I hiccup. "Don't be mad," I sob.

He's still waiting.

"I couldn't do it, Edward." I wipe my eyes. "I almost did, but I couldn't."

He sits back against the seat; I'm still clutching on to the front of his shirt.

"We don't have to keep it, but I couldn't kill it. I—"

"I was so fucking scared, Bella," he finally speaks. "Oh, fuck."

He kick opens the truck door, letting in some cool, summer air. I breathe it in, and slowly, along with his fingers brushing up and down my forearm, I'm able to calm myself down to a semi-rational spot.

Then Edward says, "We're going to have a baby."

And I say, "I'm sorry."

He smirks, and if this weren't already so fucked-up, my panties would probably drop.

My guy turns his body toward me. My knuckles are back at his mouth. He kisses me softly, and smirks a little more.

"I didn't want you to do it," he admits. "But I didn't want you to feel like you had to keep it for me. You kept going back and forth…" his words fall away.

I laugh. "We're going to have a freakin' baby."

The thought really blows my mind, and it's too much to think about right now.

"Can we leave?" he asks.

I nod.

We switch places, knocking heads and laughing, and he gets behind the wheel. Edward starts the truck, but before he drives away, I stop him.

I nod my chin toward the entrance doors of Planned Parenthood. "If we're going to have this kid, we'll probably have to save all the money we can for diapers and baby food, so maybe you should go get your money back."

Four hundred dollars will buy at least a year's worth of diapers and formula.

The right side of Edward's mouth curves. "Are you sure you want to do this with me?" he asks.

I shrug. "How hard can being a mom really be?"

.

.

.

The protesters show up while Edward's getting a refund on our abortion. I've heard about how crazy they can be, but I've only ever seen them in action on TV. When the anti-abortion radicals get really radical, they catch clinics on fire or shoot at doctors. Last year, I overheard a girl in the school restroom talking about how she was harassed by pro-life activists when she accompanied her sister to her "doctor visit." I didn't consider they'd be here today, but that was my own ignorance.

They're not bothering me, but there's something to be feared when a group of people are so passionate about their cause they're willing to give up their freedom for it. Although, all this group is doing is holding up picket signs and chanting, "Abortion is an abomination." I don't think I'm in danger of being shot at or caught on fire.

That's until Edward reappears.

As soon as he walks out the Planned Parenthood front doors, he's bombarded by people holding billboards and yelling through a bullhorns. Caught off guard, my guy is in the middle of a pro-life movement and doesn't even realize it. After the morning we've had, this is the last thing he needs. I watch his eyes as he reads the signs, and I read his lips as he asks, "What the fuck?"

The protesters don't physically hold him back, but they make it hard for Edward to get to the truck. Because of the bullhorn, I can hear them yelling out abortion statistics and their "Choose life" views. Since we didn't actually terminate the pregnancy, they're yelling at the wrong person, which is actually kind of funny. I giggle.

Then they start throwing the eggs.

"There she is!" someone yells. Standing right in front of my truck, a twenty-something brunette points at me.

The egg she threw at my windshield smears down the glass.

"Bitch!" I shriek.

Edward finally manages past the pack of advocates and gets into the truck. "Assholes," he mumbles.

Someone throws another egg. And another. And another.

They hit my truck like bombs, echoing loud as shell and yolk collide with steal. We can't see out the windshield, and now the bunch is right outside of our windows, screaming that we're going to Hell for killing our baby.

Edward starts the truck and turns the windshield wipers on to clear some of the egg. Shifting the Chevy into drive, Edward honks the horn in an attempt to get the protesters to move. They haven't thrown an egg in a few seconds, so I roll down the window.

"What are you doing?" Edward hisses.

"I'm going to explain," I say, getting the window down.

Which turns out to be a huge mistake, because as soon as I stick my head out the window with the intention of enlightening the anti-pro-choice marchers about our anti-pro-choice decision, I'm hit right in the forehead with an egg.

Thinking I've been shot, I scream. When I realize it's only an egg, I wipe chicken membrane from my face and shout, "You motherfu—"

They throw another egg and hit hits the truck, right beside my head. No longer concerned about the activist's wellbeing, Edward steps on the gas and drives away as egg after egg is thrown in our wake.

The last thing I hear before Smirks pulls out onto the road is the movement chanting, "Baby murderer!"

Which I'm not, but Charlie might murder me when I fill him in on how pro-life I am.

I'd rather eat sandy bread.


	10. Kool-Aid

**I do not own Twilight. If I did, Edward would have had his clothes off more often. **

**My betas Kim, Catherine, and Jenny, you're life-savers! Andrea, my pre-reader, you're a heart-saver. **

**Readers, you're just awesome. **

**Statistics: **

_Teen birth rates have dropped fifteen percent since 2007. _

_With the exception of Virginia and North Dakota. _

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**Chapter Nine**

June turns into July, and I'm another week pregnant.

"This week your baby's bones are hardening, and he or she can close her fist," James reads from her phone.

I roll from my back to my stomach and sigh. "Can't I have one normal afternoon?"

Since Edward and I ditched the idea of offing the kid, I've spent the last seven days asking myself why. At the time, backing out of the abortion seemed like the right thing to do—I was scared out of my mind and full of shame—but after we drove off, and by the time egg started to dry on my truck and in my hair, I began to second-guess myself.

If I would have sucked it up and not chickened out, I wouldn't be pregnant right now; the last one hundred and sixty-eight hours wouldn't have been wasted questioning my sanity, but doing normal shit, like sleeping until noon and skateboarding. But no, I grew a conscience—which was always kind of there, if I'm being honest—and decided my child's life was worth living. Even at the expense of my own.

How very pro-life of me.

I'll be sidewalk counseling and egg chucking in no time.

James tosses her iPhone into her beach bag. She scoffs. "There's nothing normal about this." She waves her hands over me, and then nods her head toward the beach.

I don't have to look over my shoulder to know what she's talking about. Today's my first Saturday off in three weeks. Naturally, I wanted to enjoy it on the beach with my best friend. Naturally, so did Edward. And naturally, so did every other kid in La Push, including Dani and Remington. I don't know how we all ended up with the same damn day off, but the stars aligned, and they are not in my favor.

Ex-boyfriend's riding waves with Baby Daddy. And Baby Daddy's girlfriend is standing with her feet in the water, eating peanut butter and jelly on a tortilla because she said they didn't have bread at her house.

"It's just as good," she claimed when I made a face. "Try it," she had said, offering me a bite of her lunch.

I almost threw up.

Initially, only my mast and I occupied the shoreline at the back of my house. My pickup is parked on the sand, the radio is up, and the sunshine is out, blonding my hair and tanning my skin. We made sandwiches and cut watermelon into bite-sized pieces. I put sunscreen on James' back, and she put it on mine. There was no talk about babies or Smirks or when I'm going to tell Charlie he's a grandfather. It was just my girlfriend, the summer, and me—normal.

Then Edward walked by with his surfboard.

The dread-guilt-love I feel for the boy flared up as soon as I saw him. We haven't been spending a lot of time together since our trip to Seattle. He's taken on a few extra shifts at Charlie's, and I really don't feel like facing him. Or any of it, for that matter. I work. I go home. I take care of my dad. I hang with James, have morning sickness at random times, and question what the fuck I was thinking.

That's all.

That's all I've done in the last week.

Well, I've also avoided Remington.

He showed up this afternoon with his board, too, a while after Felix appeared with his.

Dani California, with PB&J wrapped in a flour tortilla and a Coke wrapped in a brown paper bag, surfaced sometime after the boys.

Now it's a party because Alice and Jasper joined us, and Rosalie is supposed to come by. Remington was talking about getting a bundle of wood so we can start a bonfire later tonight. Apparently, Felix doesn't have a problem running to the store to grab some hot dogs—kosher—so we can cook them on the fire.

"And s'mores!" James suggested, when he asked if there was anything else he could get.

I tried to play coy and act like I was too tired to surf when the rest of my friends, sans Edward, who hasn't left the water since he got in, got on my case about not being in the ocean. Truth be told, I don't know if I can even surf pregnant, and after the fall I took with Edward a few weeks back on his skateboard, I don't want to chance it until I talk to a doctor. It would suck to lose this baby over something stupid like surfing when I've already axed the abortion and took an egg to the head in the process. I still have a bruise above my eyebrow.

Of course, I have great friends, so they gave me a hard time.

"What's wrong, Sail? Are you sick?" Jasper asked.

"Is it that time of the month, girl?" Alice questioned.

"Sail."

"Sail."

"Sail."

"It's good to know I'm not the only thing you're avoiding," Remy remarked after I declined his nine hundredth invitation into the sea.

They're off my back now. Except for James. As soon as our uninvited pals gave up on getting me into the water, she decided looking up fetal developments and shit would be a good idea.

"When do you guys plan on telling them?" James asks, turning to her back. She leans on her elbows, letting the sun soak into her face and chest.

And that is _the_ question.

When are we going to tell them? And what _them_ are we going to tell first?

Obviously, I should tell my dad I'm pregnant before I mention anything to my ex-boyfriend. He's my father, and he may be a little … out there, but I owe Charlie. He's going to be angry as it is; I don't need to make it worse by making sure he's the last to know. The thought of him finding out from somebody else—this town is too small for its own good—terrifies me. And if I tell Remy before Charlie, the chances of that happening are high.

I have no doubt Remington is going to react badly and irrationally. I keep trying to put myself in his shoes. What would I do if my Remington knocked up some girl? Or worse, one of my friends?

I don't know.

It's inconceivable to me.

I honestly believe he would never do anything like I have.

But it would break my heart.

At least my father can't get rid of me; by law he has to keep me until I'm eighteen, baby or no baby. Ex-boyfriend can, though, and he will. He'll move on, and chances are I'll eventually see him with someone new. He'll pass on my promise ring. He'll be someone else's prom date. Someone else's boyfriend.

And I'll be changing diapers.

I lay my head on my arm. "Soon," I answer.

I close my eyes, willing away thoughts about broken hearts and tiny toes. I concentrate on the warmth from the sun seeping into my skin. I listen to the waves crashing onto the shore. I hear my friends laughing and the music playing.

I feel Remington's lips press on to the back of my neck.

At first, I smile. He smells like sea salt, and he drips drops of ocean onto my heated body. Ex-boyfriend's fingers slip under the tie of my bikini top.

"Just looking for tan lines," he explains when I open my eyes.

I'm not smiling anymore. Especially when just a finger under my tie changes to his entire palm sliding down my back. He tries to kiss me, but I turn my head.

"Stop making me beg for it," he whispers. His surf-soaked curls trickle water onto my face. "What do I have to do?" he asks.

Just then, someone throws their surfboard onto the beach beside where Remington and I are lying. It blows sand all over our bodies and in my eyes.

I scream. And I stand up, pushing my ex-boyfriend off of me.

"What the hell?" I shriek, brushing sand from my face.

"Sorry," Edward, who's finally graced us with his presence, mumbles.

Taking a quick look around through watery eyes, it's only Edward, James, Remington, and me here. Everyone else is playing in the waves.

"That was a real jerk move, dick," I snap, picking up my towel to shake it out.

Remington gets up before I shake sand all over him, and James stands as if to help me. Cockface Smirks steps back, in an apparent shitty mood. He's peeling his wetsuit off, giving me the evil eye.

"Fucker," I mouth.

He flips me off.

James grabs the other end of my towel.

"I've got this," I tell her.

She doesn't let go, though. "Let's shake it over here, away from everyone's stuff."

"What?" I question, irritated. "No. It's not even that—"

The all-too-real look she's giving me cuts me off, and I do what she wants. Guilt prevents me from looking back at Remington. He's not naive; he knows it doesn't take two girls to shake out a beach towel. It's only a matter of time before that boy gives up on me. Either because I tell him I'm pregnant with Edward's kid or because he grows tired of my shit.

James stands beside me, and with each of us holding a corner of my white towel with pink stripes, we shake.

"Dude, Sail, you're totally showing," my best friend whispers.

I look down at my chest. "Nipple?" I ask. My cheeks redden.

My breasts have filled in a lot lately. I tore my room apart this morning because my bathing suit tops wouldn't fit over my new additions. I almost decided to run over to Charlie's shop to snag a new two piece when I finally found a bikini that worked. I guess it was just wishful thinking.

With one hand, I adjust my bathing suit. "I don't think so, James. Or can you see through the material?" I ask, wondering if thin yellow nylon is the problem.

James looks over her shoulder. "No," she hisses, looking back at me. "Your stomach, Bella."

My heart stops. "What?"

I drop the towel.

She picks it up and starts folding. "I swear I didn't notice earlier, and I don't think Remington did now, but Sail, it's there."

My hands cover my belly. It doesn't feel any rounder than normal, and looking down on it, I don't see anything. James wouldn't just say this, though, so I take her word for it and walk away.

I tread past my truck, up the steps to the porch, through the back door of my house, around the kitchen table, and straight to my room.

And she's right.

I'm showing.

Standing in front of my mirrored closet doors, my growing baby is reflecting back at me. To anyone who doesn't know any better, they might guess that I ate too much watermelon, drank too much water, or maybe I just gained a few pounds since the start of summer. But James knows, and she recognized what this roundness in my stomach is right away. Esme's a mom, so she'll probably figure it out. Dani's mom has, like, six kids, so Edward's girlfriend might be experienced enough to spot my spawn. My dad might not catch on because he's a boy and my dad, and I'm his baby girl who can't do anything wrong, but this won't remain a secret much longer.

"What's wrong?"

Edward's voice startles me, and I jump. He laughs, seemingly in a much better mood than he was when he was tossing his surfboard around.

I hold my hand over my fast-beating heart. "You scared me," I say, trying to calm my pulse.

Edward enters my room. He has sand stuck on his skin up to his knees, and on his stomach and chest. I'm positive if he turns around, it'll be on his back, too. He smells like Hawaiian Tropic, and his hair is in need of some saltless water and a cut. The freckles across his nose are darkening as the summer progresses; they're scattered on his arms and shoulders, too.

He sits on my bed.

Instead of screaming for him to get his sandy body off my comforter, I turn back toward the mirror and say, "We're running out of time."

His eyes find mine. "To do what?"

I rub my palms over my belly. "Look."

And he does. And he sees.

"Shit," he says lowly.

Edward stands up. He moves behind me and lingers for a second before reaching for my hips, turning me around. Face to face with the boy who has been my friend forever, I drop my hands from my stomach, only to have Edward replace them with one of his.

In spite of the bad feeling about what's to come and what's already happened, I smile.

The right side of Edward's mouth lifts. "This is insane."

In this simple, sweet moment, I don't hate that our baby has let itself show. I'm not thinking about Remington or Dani, or how afraid I am to tell our families about what we've conceived. I'm focused on Edward's smile and its perfect sweep. I'm falling in love with the feel of his touch on my skin. I'm deciding that if this had to happen, I'm glad it happened with Smirks.

At the sound of the back door opening, Edward and I put some space between us. I'm still under a spell, though, and I want to spend the rest of the summer with his palm on my expanding belly.

"Are you guys here?" Felix calls from the kitchen.

Edward clears his throat. "Back here."

At the soft thud of Felix's footsteps on wood floors, I move around this boy and walk toward my dresser. I slip a loose fitting tank top over my head, and once it's on, I ask Edward if he can see anything. He shakes his head just as Felix blesses us with his company.

"It smells like sex in here," he says with a smile.

"Very funny," I reply, turning a little red.

Truthfully, sex doesn't sound like a half-bad idea. Blame it on hormones—the pregnancy or the teenager ones—but I've been in the mood the last few days. Of course, the crippling depression I've been under has made things a little weird. There's nothing like being hot out of your mind, while at the same time being unable to stop crying.

But right now, I feel better.

"I'm going to run to the store with James to get the hot dogs," Felix says. "Do either one of you need anything?"

I shake my head, biting my bottom lip. Looking at Edward, all sandy and mostly naked, sex definitely doesn't sound like a terrible notion.

"Are you sure, Sail?" Felix asks. "No pregnancy cravings or anything?"

My head snaps from Edward's direction to Felix's. "Did you seriously just ask that?" I question, not at all amused.

He holds his hands up in surrender, slowly backing out of the room. He looks at Edward. "Your girlfriend. The one outside," he clarifies, "is looking for you."

.

.

.

Symptoms of pregnancy: tiredness, morning sickness, temporary insanity.

That's the only explanation for what happened in my bedroom with Edward. _Falling in love with his touch on my skin—_have I lost my fucking mind? All of that happened—the tenderness, the love I felt for the baby, the thought of sex—while Baby Daddy's girlfriend and Remington were right outside the window, wondering where we were.

I lost touch with reality for a few moments. Dani's my friend, Edward's not mine, and even though Remy and I are done, I need to show a little respect to the memory of us. He's already going to look like a fool when news about my pregnancy gets out. The least I can do is not fuck his friend … again.

But why can't I get Smirks off of my mind?

The hot dogs are long gone, cooked and consumed. The sun is set, and the moon is out. My friends and I are still on the beach, draining every minute out of this day turned night. A few of them are sipping on beers; I'm drinking cranberry juice out of a red Solo cup. The last of the wood was thrown in the bonfire a couple of hours ago, and now it's starting to burn out. White smoke seeps into the salted air.

"Tired?" James asks from above me.

On a blanket laid out just for me, I'm lying with my head on James' lap. Felix is beside her; he lets her swig his brew every so often.

I nod, yawn, and stretch—slightly dramatic, but not necessarily untrue. It's a known fact that creating another human being inside of your body is exhausting, especially through your first trimester. Throw in morning sickness and nonstop emotional turmoil, and you have the makings for one tired girl. I could stay up if I wanted to. I'm amongst friends, the music is good, and the dwindling fire feels great on my cold nose. But I don't want to.

Edward's right across the fire, and beside him is his girlfriend. I've been trying really hard not to think ill thoughts of her all night, but I'm not hard enough. Streaming images of pulling her hair and punching her in the throat have been on my mind since someone threw the match in the fire. The father to my child is smart enough to keep a relative distance from Dani, but she's a persistent twat. One minute she's sitting on his lap, kissing his face, and the next, she's jumping on his back, trying to get him to take a walk with her.

And now I'm wondering if he plans on leaving her at all. I'm questioning what I'll do if he decides Dani's worth keeping even though I'm having his kid. And what if she loves him enough to keep him, too?

There's no way in hell I could stand by while Dani California plays stepmommy to my kid.

I get on my feet, dusting sand from my hands. "I'm going to bed," I announce.

I have to go before I kill Edward and his girlfriend.

Making my rounds and saying goodbye to my friends doesn't take too long. I'm quick with my farewells, not allowing anyone the opportunity to trap me in a conversation. That's until I reach Remington, anyway. He doesn't let me off the hook with a promise to call him tomorrow. He asks me if I want him to come in with me. "I'll stay until you fall asleep," he says.

Without thinking, I blurt, "No."

My outburst was rude, not entirely deliberate, and wounding. Remington scowls, not at all as passive as he has been, and our crowd of friends dim their conversations and stare, as if they're about to witness a boyfriend and girlfriend go at it.

In an effort to save face—Remington's more than my own—I lift on my tippy toes and circle my arms around his neck. I kiss the corner of his mouth before placing my lips at his ear and whispering, "Forgive me."

With a grip much tighter than my own, Remington answers, "For anything."

The show of public affection works, and the commotion around us returns to normal. Since he'll never let me go, and because I really want to go inside the house, I pull away from Remy first. I pat his chest, smile sadly, and reply, "I'll hold you to that."

Making my exit from what has been a very long day on the beach, I walk right past Edward and Dani California without a word.

Exactly how worn out I really am doesn't hit me until I'm shutting the back door, closing myself inside the house, and shutting everyone else out. All of a sudden my skin feels sore and red, tender and sunburned. My stomach growls, because after a round of baby sickness this morning, all I've eaten today is a sandwich, a couple of bites of watermelon, and a bite of James' hotdog. My hair feels dirty, and my eyes sting when I blink. All I want is a long shower and my bed.

Taking a deep breath, I push away from the door, walk to the fridge, and open it up. The cool air feels great on my skin, and after choosing a string cheese and a bottle of water, I close it using my hip. Just as I'm unscrewing the cap to my Aquafina, Edward walks through the same door I just closed to keep everyone out.

"What do you want?" I ask before taking a sip of my drink.

Edward locks the door. He walks past me into the living room without answering my question or acknowledging my existence.

I shrug, mouthing, "Whatever."

After taking a few more swigs from my bottle of water, I screw the cap back on and leave it on the counter. I walk right into Smirks as I pass from the kitchen to the family room, smashing my face on his shoulder.

He laughs; I wince.

"Jerk," I groan.

He stops laughing long enough to ask, "Where's your dad?"

I sniff the air, and for the first time since I entered the house, I realize I don't smell the scent of Charlie's habit. "I thought he was here," I answer.

"Well, he's not."

I move around Edward, heading toward the bathroom for that shower I need. "Cool," I say.

As I put some distance between Baby Daddy and me, he reaches for my arm. "Bella," he starts.

I pull myself free. "Leave me alone," I mumble.

Like his sperm, he's persistent, so he follows me. I try to close the bathroom door on him, but it's already been established that doors can't hold Edward back. He pushes himself through, showing no regard or respect for my wishes. The bathroom is too small to put up too much of a fight, so I push him in the chest, but let him stay.

"I'm taking a shower, so unless you want to see me naked…" I trail off, pulling my hoodie over my head.

My fixer leans back against the wall. "What are you trying to play, Sail?"

I drop my sweater to the floor. "What?" I ask, confused.

His jaw clenches. Dark grey eyes stare hard. Edward's still shirtless, and it's completely distracting. His skin bears hints of a sunburn, too, and I swear the freckles on his shoulders are darker than they were this afternoon. Behind smoldering eyes, hot skin, and shoulders I could sink my teeth into, there's exhaustion in him that matches mine. Sometimes I forget this isn't only happening to me.

Right as I'm beginning to feel sorry for him, Smirks fires with, "Are you still fucking Remington?"

I'm so taken aback, I actually gasp—after-school special, over-the-top dramatic, hands over my mouth, eyes wide open, taking a step back—gasp. I even top it with an honest-to-truth, horrified, "You monster!"

Edward kind of smiles before his expression returns to demon status. "I'm the monster? You're the one kissing another dude while you're pregnant with my kid."

It's the truth, but fuck him.

"Fuck you!" I shriek.

In fear of killing this jerk with my bare hands, I turn away and push the shower curtain open.

"You have no idea," I say, turning the water on. "You have no clue how it feels to be me."

Edward laughs out loud. "Shut up!"

I turn around, pointing my finger at him. The bathroom is beginning to fill with sticky steam. "This is all your fault, and don't act like I haven't had to sit around and watch you with Dani every single day, Edward."

This time, he's the one shocked by what I have to say. His eyebrows lift. "My fault?"

I cross my arms over my chest. "Yeah, you kissed me on my birthday."

Now he points at me. "You showed me your tits."

"I was taking my sweater off!" I yell. "That wasn't an invitation for you to get me pregnant!"

He backs into the corner between the door and the wall. He knows I'm right. He's right, too. Yet, we're both absolutely wrong. We made a shitty decision when having sex, but neither one of us intended for this to happen. We didn't get pregnant on purpose.

However, I don't think this argument has anything to do with the night of my seventeenth birthday.

So I come out with it. "Are you going to break up with her?"

Edward looks down at his feet. He shrugs. "Do I have a choice?"

Rage gushes through my veins, and even though I don't entirely understand it, I see red. The thought of him running around with his girlfriend, as if nothing has changed, while I carry his child is maddening. I won't share him, and I won't share my kid. Dani California will not make this family of three a family of four.

Jealousy is one hell of an emotion.

"What about Remington?" Edward finally asks. Any sign of doubt is gone from his tone.

My temper flares, and I stomp my foot as I ask with a raised voice, "What about him, Smirks? Remington and I are not together. We haven't been this entire time."

He laughs at me. "Bullshit."

I roll my eyes. "We broke up, and you know it." I scoff, leaning back against the sink. "Are you still sleeping with Dani?"

He shakes his head.

"Edward," I say tiredly. "Get out so I can take a shower."

The space we're in is filled with warm steam thanks to the hot water spraying from the shower head. The mirrors are clouded, and the air is thick. White tile is sticking to the bottom of my feet, and drops of moisture are beading on the walls. My skin is moist, and my hair is starting to curl. Edward's, too.

"I don't want him touching you anymore, Sail," Edward says firmly. "It …" he trails. "It kills me."

I stand straight, moving away from the sink. My hair is a frizzy mess, I'm tired, and I'm done. "Get out."

Turning away from this boy, I reach behind my back and untie my bikini. I slip my thumbs under the elastic of my bottoms as my top is falling to my feet. Before I have a chance to pull them down my legs, my feet slip in the condensation on the floor.

Edward catches me before I tumble.

And then we are kissing.

Bare chest pressed against bare chest, Smirks wraps his arms around my body, and I cling on to his sides. Our tongues touch as he lifts me up, setting me on the edge of the sink. I open my legs, giving him just enough room to fit between me. As his lips roam down my throat to my chest, I light up. Every inch of me tingles and burns as if lust literally boils under my skin. Anywhere he touches, anyplace he kisses, each spot his mouth presses, stings with need and stuns me breathless.

My cheeks are already red hot from all of the steam in the bathroom, but the more this boy touches me, the deeper the fervor becomes, spreading ruby red well beyond the bronzed skin of my face.

I tilt my head back, stretching my neck, closing my eyes, waiting for Edward to press his kiss on every single inch of skin I give him: under my jaw, near my ear, where my shoulder meets my throat.

It's like I've been possessed. As if I've never been touched before. This feels brand new. It's all I can do not to beg for it, cry for it, take it.

I whisper, "Edward, Edward, Edward."

If my dad comes home, he'll hear us. Any one of our friends could come into the house and they'd know, too. Maybe they're listening from outside. I don't care, because this is unreal.

Edward's lips are slowly returning to mine. He presses heavy kisses along my jaw, kissing softly at the corner of my mouth.

"Here?" he asks, just as breathless as I am.

I hate that he stopped kissing me long enough to ask. Finally opening my eyes, I don't bother answering. I sit up straight, taking his face in the palms of my hands. This time I kiss him, biting his bottom lip and pulling before attaching my mouth to the sharp angle of his jaw. My hands slide to his neck, his shoulders, down his arms. Edward has his hands on the rim of the counter beside my thighs. I place one of them where my bikini bottoms tie.

He knows what to do.

Baby Daddy undoes one side, and then the other. Then I'm bare.

I suck on Edward's throat. He hisses. Our heads turn at the same time, and our lips fuse again. It's a beautiful tangle of tongues, mouths, breaths, and a few smiles.

Making out with Edward is … sexy.

I don't know a damn thing about being racy or erotic, either. Sex is usually clumsy and fast and in the dark. But with Smirks, all of the lights are on, and I want him to see me. There isn't a place on my body I don't want him to touch. I'm gasping and reaching and pulling, and I feel a little bit delirious, and it's probably all really crazy, but it doesn't feel awkward at all.

Our kiss is bottomless. It's smooth and dirty and easy.

I slip my hand down Edward's shorts, circling my hand around his length. He stops kissing me, dazed. As I slowly start to move my hand, this boy moans against my mouth, and then he smirks.

It's really, really quick after that.

His shorts are off, and I'm being pulled to the very edge of the sink. We fumble a little trying to get him in. We laugh, and we smile, and we kiss. And then he's there, and he's pushing inside of me. Goose bumps cover my arms and legs, and the smallest gasp escapes my lips.

Smirks is great with his hips. He's strong, and he's sure, and he's so fucking hard.

The shower water must have gone cold because the steam has gone, but I don't feel any cooler. Neither does Edward. His skin is still sticky, and his hair is damp. I twist my fingers into Smirks' auburn strands at the nape of his neck. I moan against his shoulder. I look at his face and melt at his expression.

I've had orgasms before.

But nothing like this.

I felt it take shape the moment he kissed me, but now it's on the brink of igniting, and it might literally kill me.

My heart is beating out of control. I can't feel the tips of my fingers and toes. My lips tingle. I don't want to break Edward's skin, so I try not to scratch him too much, but there is nothing I can do about how hard I cling.

_It's so close, if he just goes a little harder…_

So I'm circling my hips, too. I hold on to his sides. I hold on to his bottom. I feel him clench every time he strokes forward.

"Holy shit," Edward whispers with a heavy tone.

And that does it.

I explode.

Orgasms in general are amazing. It's an instant worry eliminator. A pain reliever. A dose of who-gives-a-shit. There's no drug or drink or food that will make you feel more alive … more free. It's twenty seconds of natural ecstasy, and once you've had one, you'll do anything to experience it again.

Like having sex with your best friend on your birthday.

But coming while you're pregnant is a whole new level of incredible. Remington has given me a few good rides. I didn't come every time we had sex. It always felt good, but in the beginning, we were just learning. It was awkward, fast, and always in the dark.

This, though…

This is core-rocking, soul-shaking, bone-bending good. I can't moan loud enough. I can't hold him hard enough. My eyes won't open. My head's fallen back. My knees are wide open, hoping he can fill me just a little more.

Unaware of anything other than Edward and how good he's making me feel, he takes me up, up, up, and it seems like forever before I come plummeting down, down, down.

I'm like Jell-O when it's over, and my lips are still tingling. Smirks holds me up because I just want to tumble over. I'm gasping for breath, and he's smiling against the side of my face, kissing me once in a while.

"Never—" I'm trying to say. "What was that?"

Smirks laughs before saying, "Your piranha pussy is evil."

.

.

.

When I wake up the next day, it's well into the afternoon. It takes a moment for me to get myself together, blinking sleep away and stretching sore muscles. There's a tenderness between my legs that makes me smile. It has more to do with the awesome orgasm I had and not so much to do with the boy who gave it to me.

At least, that's what I'm telling myself.

I kick the blankets off, rub my hand over my rounding stomach, and sit up. My bedroom door is open, so Charlie must have tried to wake me up. I slept like the dead. Edward had to practically hold me up in the shower last night, and I remember nothing after he carried me to bed. I don't know if he stayed, or if he went home. I don't know when my friends left the beach, or where my dad was, because I remember he wasn't here.

As I make my way out of my room toward the bathroom, I hear my pops singing, _"Guantanamera. Guajira Guantanamera,"_ and I smell his vice in the air.

After peeing the longest pee ever, I check myself in the mirror, double and triple checking that my tummy isn't noticeable under my oversized tee. Charlie will need to be told about the baby soon, but today isn't that day.

I'm attempting to comb my hair when I hear the yelling. At first, I assume it's the TV since the music's stopped playing. Charlie isn't singing anymore, and _CSI Miami_ reruns are his favorite. You can always count on my father to stop his day for anything David Caruso. Some girl must be getting murdered. I shrug, think nothing of it, and continue fighting the tangles I got during the night.

But then I hear the front door open and the shouting gets louder. Charlie's laughing at something.

I put down my comb and rush out to the living room, where the yelling—that's actually coming from the front yard and not the TV—_is_ because a girl is being murdered, but only emotionally.

I'd recognize that shriek anywhere.

It's Dani, and evidently, she thinks I'm a slut.

Cautiously, I step onto the porch, and when she sees me, Edward's girlfriend picks up a rock from the sidewalk and chucks it at me.

She's wild-eyed and noticeably upset. Dani's in the same bikini she wore on the beach yesterday, which has me wondering where she slept last night, if she did at all. Her face is swollen from crying, and her feet are dirty, like she's been walking on them bare for a while. She's alone, accompanied only by her madness, and the dozen or so beach rocks that are always scattered in front of our house.

She picks up another and throws it. "You fucking skank!" she yells. "I hope you get fat!"

Charlie and I duck in order not to be hit.

"What's the matter, Dani?" My dad asks, half amused. Teenage antics are hilarious to a pothead like Charlie. "Tell your mom I'll be over there later to take down her Christmas lights, girl."

He winks suggestively.

I gasp. "Dad!"

I'm not as entertained as my life giver is, but I don't even begin to act stupid. Somehow, Dani knows I'm pregnant, and she's about to tell the entire block if I can't get her to leave.

Thankfully, Edward comes running out of his house just as Dani throws two more rocks. One hits the window, and the second hits me in the shin.

"Ouch!" I cry, bending over to reach for my leg.

"You were my friend!" Dani screams as Edward reaches her, blocking her view of me.

At the sight of him near her, I half want to pick up a few rocks of my own, but that would only make things worse. Now Smirks and his girl are having a full-out brawl in my front yard. She's punching him in the chest, and he's trying to hold her back. They're both unhappy, and that's sad to see, but I really need them to take this elsewhere before Charlie picks up on some information I don't need him to know. And preferably, I'd like it if Dani California left alone.

"Did you dip in her Kool-Aid, Sail?" Dad asks out of nowhere, laughing as Dani tries to smack Edward for the tenth time.

I act put off, even if I did in fact, dip in her "Kool-Aid."

"No," I answer defensively.

Dad must be too high to realize what's really going on, and for once, I am grateful for his dependency.

"Well," my dad announces, bored with the commotion. "I'm hungry." He turns and goes into the house.

I debate going inside with him, and right as I decide I should, I hear Edward say, "Get the fuck out of here, Dani."

The seriousness in his tone finally shuts her up. She stops trying to hit him, and she doesn't throw any more rocks. The girl who will never be my friend again wipes her face, stands straight, and looks at me before saying, "I'm going to kick your ass, Bella."

James was right. This girl is crazy.

It's unsettling watching her walk down the street, but I know it's only a few minutes before she gets home. There's no doubt the first person she'll call is Remington, and then all bets are off.

Our secret will be out.

"What happened, Edward?" I ask.

He's already walking my way, taking a seat on the top step of the porch.

"She showed up last night." He clears his throat. "Said she saw me go into your house and not leave."

I get mad. "You couldn't have made something up?"

He stands, giving me a dose of his own anger. "I had to tell her eventually, Sail."

My eyes water. I cross my arms over my chest. And even though I know the answer, I ask, "So now what?"

Dark grey eyes meet mine. "We have to tell our parents."


	11. Grounded

**I do not own Twilight. If I did, Edward would've taken his shirt off more. **

**Special thanks to my betas Kim, Catherine, and Jenny. And kudos to my dear friend Andrea who helps with things like Mexican yodeling. **

**Much love to all of the Pickup Truck readers! **

**Also, I think we've all learned a lesson this week: don't mess with out fandom. **

**Thank you, thank you, thank you so much for helping me out this week. Without the readers, I would never have known there was someone out there profiting from both Dusty and Pickup Truck. I owe you. When I started this after Dusty, I was in an odd place. I didn't really know where I fit in or what direction I wanted to take, but with your support and all the praise the story is receiving, I'm more determined than ever to write tales. Thank you so much. **

**Statistics: **

_75% of girls and over half of boys report that girls who have sex do so because their boyfriends want them to._

_8 in 10 girls and 6 in 10 boys say they wish they had waited until they were older to have sex._

**Chapter Nine **

"It's really hot in here." I wipe my forehead. "Are you hot?" I ask Edward. He shakes his head. "I'm burning up," I say.

"The air's on," Esme mentions, using tongs to turn the chicken she's frying.

I hold my hair up, fanning my face. "It's so fucking hot," I groan.

Carlisle walks into the kitchen, looking fresh, smelling like soap from his shower. "You feeling okay, Sail?" he asks, patting my head as he walks by. He kisses his wife before grabbing a bottle of water from their fridge.

We've been waiting for Carlisle to join us. His shower and shave were the only things keeping Edward and me from delivering our news. It's been well over an hour since we've arrived and the anticipation is crushing. I keep expecting Dani to come back with a handful of rocks aimed at my head. The phone rang earlier, and I swore it was going to be someone who'd already heard about the pregnancy. I don't know if Remington knows yet—he probably does. I'm sure Little Miss California's spread the word by now.

Edward nudges me with this foot, mouthing, "Calm down."

I sink into my chair, rubbing the palms of my hands down my heated face. This is unbearable.

"I think I need some air," I wheeze, stumbling out of my seat.

Baby Daddy catches my elbow. "Sit," he whispers harshly.

I sit.

"Dad," he calls. "Will you get Bella a water?"

Carlisle smiles at me suspiciously. "Are you hungover?"

Should I be offended that I can't be unwell without anyone assuming it's because I drank too much?

I awkwardly smile. "Caught me."

My kid's grandfather straightens his shoulders and puts his "responsible parent face" on. As soon as I spot it, I know I'm in for a lecture. He passes me a Dasani, gearing up for a speech.

Before he has a chance to start, Edward chimes in. "We need to talk."

Esme places more breaded chicken into hot grease. The sound of sizzling poultry crackles in the air. Carlisle's caught off guard by the grit in Edward's tone. Or maybe it's how pale Smirks suddenly turns. Or how much I'm sweating. Either way, Ninja Ears Cullen knows something's up.

Esme on the other hand is unaware. She's high on the scent of fried food.

"Is everything okay?" Carlisle asks, tentatively.

My hands are shaking too hard to unscrew the cap on my bottle, so I give up, setting it on the table. I watch condensation drip down its sides, pooling onto old oak. Beneath the surface where this family eats their meals, my knee is bouncing up and down. I wipe sweaty palms down the front of my shirt, not at all close to ready for this.

Then Edward's hand is on my leg, resting its jump. He and I make eye contact. _Be brave,_ his stare whispers, but he's the fixer in this twosome, not me. Smirks is the smart one, the composed one, the one who makes everything better.

I'm a mess.

A pregnant mess.

With watery eyes, I subtly shake my head.

His hand slides up my thigh. I try not to smile, but fail. With my heart remaining in the pit of my stomach, Edward reaches for my bottle, unscrews the top, and hands me my water.

"Everything's fine," he finally answers his father.

I choke mid-swallow.

Everything is most definitely not fine. In the next few minutes, Edward and I are going to drop massive madness in the laps of our parents. They'll know about Smudge, and the innocence they hold for their children will be gone. I have the ultrasound pictures in my pocket, ready to show them when, without a doubt, they ask, _"What the fuck did you just say?"_

But first, I need to breathe.

Smirks is pounding on my back, making it worse. Carlisle is telling me to hold my arms above my head, and Esme wants to know if I'm staying for lunch because the chicken is almost done.

So here I am, with my hands way up, sweating, beaten, nodding. "Sure, I can eat."

Edward groans. He stops hammering on me, but keeps his arm over the back of my chair. "We're not eating, Mom."

Grease from Esme's pan pops, catching her on the hand. She squeaks, laughing. "I made all of this food."

"Bella already ate," he argues.

Sharing a meal could stall this conversation for at least an hour. I'll eat the whole damn chicken if it means I get to keep this part of my life a little while longer.

"Actually," I begin. "I'm a little—"

Baby Daddy glares at me. "You already ate, Sail."

I cross my arms over my chest, pouting. Carlisle pulls out the chair across from me and his son. His ninja eyes are locked on us, scoping, searching, suspecting, and I swear he can see right through me.

"What's going on with you two?" he asks.

I look down.

"Mom," Edward calls. "Can you come sit with us?"

She waves him off, more concerned about making sure her chicken is the perfect golden-brown than our adolescent issues. "When I'm done."

Smirks' jaw tenses. "This is kind of important."

I look back up, and Carlisle's still staring. His expression is a blend of skepticism and amusement. Edward and I have moved closer to one another. His arm is no longer over the back of the chair, but across my shoulders. I've rested into his side with my left hand on his knee, and his breath is near my ear. I didn't even realize this boy and I had moved closer, but Carlisle did.

The adults in our lives have teased Edward and me about being destined for each other since we were kids. I wish the whole "our kind" thing was a joke, because it used to really fuck with us. But I don't even think these well-wishers had this in mind.

Teen pregnancy?

Insanity.

I guess we can always blame our parents. We'll accuse them of forcing us into feeling pressured to be together. Maybe if they were better parents, we wouldn't be … well, parents.

Esme sighs. "Did the bus break down again, Edward? We have put more money into that piece of—"

"The van is fine, Mom," he cuts her off.

She turns away from her pan with greasy tongs in her hand. "Then what is it?"

Edward lets his head fall back. He closes his eyes and breathes out through his nose. His kid's noticeable distress must be enough to finally convince Ninja Ears that this isn't a joke. Without an ounce of charm in his tone, Carlisle tells his wife to come sit.

"What did you two do this time, Smirks?" he asks, pushing out a seat as Esme comes to join us. "Did Charlie fire you again?" he guesses. "Because you know I can talk to him. You know how he is. You know he doesn't mean it."

Esme takes a go at it next. "Where's your surfboard? Did you break it? Is that what this is about? Did you get into a fight?" she questions. "You look fine to me. Was that Dani here this morning? Was she crying? Did you guys break up?"

"Well, did you?" Carlisle asks. He clears his throat. "You know I like her, Edward, but she's kind of … trashy. Does she do drugs? Did she get you hooked on drugs?"

Esme gasps. "Please tell me you're not using, Edward." She looks at me. "Did she get you hooked, too? You have been looking kind of sickly lately. I'm disappointed," she adds. "You're supposed to learn from our mistakes, not follow in our footsteps. We want so much for you."

Carlisle, calm and collected, reaches across the table. "Give me your hand, son."

Smirks and I are so stunned, we both reach forward and give Carlisle our hands.

Making eye contact first with Edward and then with me, in a soothing voice, Baby Grandfather says, "We're here for you. This is only a setback."

"Admitting you have a problem is a great first step," Esme adds.

Carlisle replies with, "We love you both."

I pull my hand back. "Wait, we're not on drugs."

Edward takes his hand back, too. "What's wrong with you guys?" he asks, completely embarrassed by his folks.

Offended, Carlisle sits up straight. "Nothing's wrong with us. What's wrong with you?"

Baby Daddy raises his voice. "We're trying to tell you!"

Ninja Ears turns a little red. "Don't yell at me, kid."

"Respect your father, Edward," Esme rebukes.

Disrespect drops his elbows on the table and hides his face in his hands. "You are so weird," he groans to his life-givers.

A funny thought crosses my mind. In seventeen years, Edward and I may have a child who regards us in the same manner. It's hard to imagine my older self, sitting across from a teenager who's half me, half Smirks, lecturing them about surfboards and drugs. I can't imagine the father of my child and I being as strange as the Cullen adults, but substance abuse is a real concern.

What if my kid caves under peer pressure?

What if he or she does get hooked on drugs?

I don't know the first thing about hosting an intervention.

Maybe I should practice on Charlie just in case.

And really, I won't be that much of "an older self." A seventeen year age difference between mother and child is nothing. I'll be thirty-four.

Never mind, that's ancient.

I might have wrinkles.

What if Edward is grossed out by wrinkles?

What if he leaves me for a younger girl?

Then I'll be a single mom. Thirty-four with a seventeen-year-old half me, half Smirks teenager who thinks I'm weird. Nobody will want me and my drug using kid. I'll be alone. I'll be old and alone.

What if I don't lose the baby weight and I'm fat, too?

It's so unfair that men get better looking with age. I bet Edward won't have wrinkles at thirty-four. Carlisle doesn't, and he's, like, thirty-five.

I should have had the abortion.

"Sail," Edward calls me out of my trance. I look at him but don't say a word. I'm being haunted by drugs and aged skin. "Should I tell them, or do you want to?" he asks.

I point to him. "Fixer." I point to myself. "Hot mess."

The hint of a smile curves the corner of his mouth for the briefest moment.

"Okay, you guys are really scaring me," Esme voices her concern. "Are you in trouble?"

I shake my head. "Not really," I mumble, looking down.

My heart is pounding, my blood runs cold, and my knee is bouncing again. As Edward sits up and clears his throat, I place shaky hands over my stomach, protecting what is ours.

Esme notices.

Realization crosses her features just as Edward admits, "Bella's pregnant."

Their silence is ear-splitting.

I wish I wouldn't, but I cry. My pathetic whimpers and sniffles are the only things disrupting the stillness of shock, confusion, and disappointment. I predicted I would feel some kind of shift once our secret was out, like the whole world would crumble just like my life is. It's the same, though. I'm just a girl, afraid, nervous … in need of help.

Edward's arm tightens around my shoulders. He holds me against him, and I cry into his neck.

"You're okay," he says lowly into my hair. "I got you."

Finally, Carlisle speaks. "Does Charlie know?" he asks.

I feel Edward shake his head, so I don't bother answering. I hide in my guy.

"Oh, honey," Esme whispers sympathetically

"I assume Remington does, right? Why isn't he here with you, Bella?" Carlisle asks with a touch of anger in his tone.

Using the sleeve of Edward's shirt to wipe my nose, I look at him apologetically and turn toward his parents.

"Umm," I start. "I don't think Remy knows yet."

"Well, who does?" Carlisle sternly asks. "And why haven't you told him? He's the father."

Esme pushes her chair back and stands up, reaching for the box of Kleenex she always keeps on the kitchen counter. Instead of pulling me out a few, she passes me the entire box. I thank her while drying my eyes with aloe infused tissue.

"Remington isn't the father, actually," I say.

"He isn't?" Esme asks. Going by the tremble in her voice, she's already put two and two together.

Carlisle hasn't. "Who is?"

"Me," Edward answers.

.

.

.

Hell hath no fury like a lied-to Esme.

As soon as Smirks' admission left his lips, his mother snatched the Kleenex box from the table and threw it right at her son's face. He blocked it before the corner of the cardboard package stabbed his eye out, but the message was received.

She was pissed.

Of course, Esme didn't think so. When she stood up and yelled, "What the fuck were you thinking?" I assumed the entire block heard.

Fifteen minutes later, not another word has passed between any of us. Edward and I are still at the table with our heads down and the fear of God—Mrs. Cullen—in our hearts. We may be dealing with a very adult situation, but at the moment, we're just a couple of kids who let their parents down. When we were tots, they used to swat us on our bottoms; now they just give us dirty looks and throw things. It's so much worse.

"Charlie is on his way over," Carlisle announces. He sets the cordless phone on its base.

My father's best friend didn't feel like a conversation about the new member of our families should be something we have in Charlies'sCharlie's absence. Once he managed to pry oil-slicked tongs from Esme's hands, which were intended for Edward's face, Carlisle went into his room and called my dad. I wanted to protest, but I knew he was right.

Besides, I've had enough things thrown at me in the last week. There was no way I was crossing Esme.

While we wait for my dad, Carlisle leans against the kitchen counter. His wife is beside him, facing the stove, crying as she stirs mashed potatoes. Her fried chicken sits on the counter on a plate, gone cold. She never lets her chicken go cold. Esme loves fried chicken. Hot fried chicken.

This is no joke.

"I just want to know what you plan to do now," Carlisle says. "I didn't even know you guys are dating."

"We're not," Edward answers.

It kind of wounds my pride, but I don't say so. He's right; we're not together.

Carlisle's eyebrows lift. "You're not? So explain to me how she got pregnant, Edward."

Hearing it out loud makes Esme cry harder.

Baby Daddy cops an attitude and replies, "It's not like we did it on purpose."

Carlisle fire back with, "I thought you were more responsible than this."

Edward shuts up.

His father continues. "I assumed you had more respect for Sail, too."

Caught completely off guard, Edward pushes his chair back angrily and asks, "What?"

Carlisle laughs, but nothing's funny. "She's like a sister to you, and you got her pregnant. What kind of light do you think this shines her in? She's seventeen, and you're not her boyfriend."

"It's not like I raped her," Edward snaps.

Out of patience, Carlisle yells, "You should have known better!"

I want to come to my friend's rescue, but I don't. What Carlisle's shouting about may be unfair to Edward, but it's true. I've already been called a slut once today; I expect it'll be something I hear a lot over the next six months. Especially once Dani comes out with her sob story.

Not that I blame her.

It's so one-sided, but the girl is always the villain in situations like this. I'll automatically be branded as the whorish best friend who manipulated her way into Edward's pants and got pregnant intentionally. And Edward will be the victim. Or the hero. Everyone will assume he was fucking his girlfriend and his best friend. Which may be the case, but not exactly. Either way, it's what teenage boys' wet dreams consist of.

"This isn't his fault," I finally mumble.

Carlisle scoffs. "Yeah, I know. I also thought you had more respect for yourself."

Talk about a hypothetical smack to the face.

Now I'm really sulking.

Which only gets worse when Charlie walks through the front door. His long hair is tied back in a low ponytail. His beard is getting too long, and his eyes are bloodshot. He smells like bud and ocean, and his board is in his hand.

I'm about to break this man's heart.

"What's wrong with you?" Charlie asks his lifelong friend, reaching for Esme's cold chicken. He takes a bite and spits it out. "It's freezing."

Esme throws a mashed potato covered spoon in the sink.

Charlie doesn't handle girl emotions too well. He hasn't been in a real relationship since Mom died, and I'm pretty tough for the fairer sex. PMS freaks him out, but tears will force him underground. He and Esme used to be drug buddies, so he's seen her crazy, but she's in emotional turmoil. He's ready to run.

"Our children have some news, Charlie," Esme says. She picks up the plate of browned poultry and dumps it in the trash.

My dad gasps. He knows things are bad if Esme's tossing out fried food.

Pops faces Edward and says, "I haven't fired you this week. What's the problem?"

"It has nothing to do with work, Charles," Carlisle informs him. "They're fucking idiots." He nods his head toward us.

My father and I make eye contact. "You're crying, too?" he asks.

I want my mom.

The thought makes me cry harder.

"Why is everyone crying?" Charlie asks no one in particular.

Esme comes around the kitchen counter and stands beside my dad. Her eyes are red, puffy, and still watering. She has splotches on her cheeks, and I assume she and I probably look a lot alike.

She looks at me. "Tell him."

I take a deep breath. Edward places his hand back on my thigh.

"I'm pregnant," I say. "Eleven weeks."

Pop's reaction is immediate.

"Did you just say you're pregnant?" my dad asks.

I nod.

"You're lying," he replies. "Tell me you're lying, Bella."

I lift my head and meet his eyes. "I wish I was." I look away, unable to face the hurt in his expression.

Dad heads toward the door he just walked through. He opens it up, not worrying when the knob hits the wall, and says, "I just saw that motherfucker Remington by the house."

I stand, ready to run after him. "It's not Remington's," I call out.

Charlie posts in front of the open entranceway. He's a small man, but feared. Normally carefree and easygoing, there is a side to Charles Swan that most people know shouldn't be fucked with. I'm what he loves more than anything in the world. More than his addiction, his shop, the memory of my mother … his own life. I've just destroyed him, and he's searching for someone to blame.

It should be me, but when I say, "It's Edward's," he's found his target.

With the rage of a thousand suns, Charlie launches himself at Baby Daddy, wrapping his hands around his throat.

.

.

.

Carlisle has to literally pull his best friend off his son by putting Charlie in a chokehold and squeezing. My dad turns a deep shade of red and then purplish before he finally lets go. Edward's on the floor, laying on his back, looking up at the ceiling gasping for air. His chair is overturned, and the kitchen table has been totally pushed to the side.

I fall to my knees beside Smirks. "Are you all right?" I ask, not knowing where to touch him.

He just kind of nods, breathing a little easier. "He chokes like a girl," Edward whispers.

On the floor where the table was before Charlie pushed it out of his way, my two favorite men are kicking, screaming, and rolling around. Then Charlie starts to cry.

"I hate to be so emotional," he snivels. "I didn't aim to get physical," he weeps.

Dad hugs his best friend, and his bestie embraces him back. It'd be cute if it weren't humorless—not at all a laughing matter. Esme tiptoes around the lifelong pals, picking up tossed over table chairs and placemats. I fall to my bottom beside my own fallen friend. I want to say something to our parents—not to shine a light on our predicament, but to apologize—but I know I shouldn't speak until spoken to.

It doesn't take long before the dining area is put back together. With Edward and me back in our seats, Esme sits across from us, but our fathers stand. Their unhappy glares make me feel two feet tall, but when Esme confirms, "We are so disappointed in you," I completely disappear.

I've been imagining this moment since I suspected I might be pregnant, but actually living it is worse than I assumed. I thought I prepared myself for their rage and their hurt, but what I didn't expect is how heartbroken I am.

Destroying lives is taxing to my soul.

Charlie won't even look at me. It's a sadness I've never suffered.

"I want you to explain this to me," Esme finally speaks up. She covers her face with her hands before dropping them to the table. "Who else knows?"

With my voice lost behind misery, Smirks answers his mother. "James, Felix, and Dani."

Esme scoffs shrewdly. "So that's what this morning was about."

"If she knows, then it's only a matter of time before the whole damn town does," Carlisle states my thoughts exactly.

Charlie turns his back on us.

"We didn't mean to hurt anyone," I say lowly, regretfully.

Edward's mother's eyes fill with tears. "Well, it would have been nice if we were the first people you came to, not your friends."

"We just thought…" —" I start.

Esme interrupts me, though. "You just thought nothing, Bella. Neither one of you were thinking, because if you were, you wouldn't be pregnant."

I sink into my chair. She's right.

Esme continues. "So, you may not have meant to hurt us, but you have. Do either of you have any idea what you have done?"

We don't reply.

"Eleven weeks!" Esme raises her voice. "You're almost through your first trimester, dammit, and you're just telling us now. This is serious," she yells. "This is your lives. Your futures. How could you be so—"

Edward drops his head back. "Give me a break."

I gasp, contemplating whether or not I should hide under the table. All three parents focus their outrage on the grey-eyed boy beside me. He stares back, unafraid.

"Look at the examples we've had," Edward points the finger back at our life-givers. "I think Bella and I are on a lot better track than any of you were at our age."

Ninja Ears looks about ready to attack his only child. "You're seventeen!"

"Only one year younger than you when you had me."

Carlisle takes a step toward his kid. "We were married."

Edward fires back with, "You were on drugs. You named me Edward Edward Cullen, for fuck's sake."

On the defensive, Esme swears, "That was an accident."

"Yeah?" Smirks questions. "You didn't notice you were writing the same name twice?" He looks at Charlie. "And Bella only has one L in her name."

Esme keeps defending herself, ignoring Charlie's snarl. "I didn't use while I was pregnant."

"Awesome," Edward mumbles. "It really shows."

"Have some respect, you little bastard," Carlisle demands. "This isn't about us. Are you two even dating?"

"Yeah," I reply.

"No," Edward answers.

Dad's eyes widen in shock, matching my own. I know we haven't talked about it, but I figured Edward and I would present ourselves as a united front. Didn't he break up with his girlfriend when he told her about me? I'm not with Remington. We were together last night. I thought … I thought wrong.

This just goes to show, I am what I am: a homewrecking slut who will end up alone.

I wipe my eyes. "You're such a jerk."

Smirks reaches for my hand. "Come on, Sail."

I let him hold it. _Whatever._

I lose myself in my own thoughts after Edward's eye-opener. I didn't expect marriage and a baby, but maybe I kind of wanted a relationship and a baby. I can't force him to commit to me because he put this life in my belly, but for him to flat out say no—fuck him. Some friend he is. And now he wants to hold my hand, pretending to be supportive while he tells our story.

"It was the night of her birthday," Baby Daddy says. "We had too much to drink."

Great, now I'm the drunk homewrecking slut. All of the adults in our lives already assume I'm always hungover. This is probably solidifying their thoughts.

"The condom broke," he continues.

I correct him. "You bit a hole in it."

Everyone ignores me. Semantics.

"Sail took a pregnancy test. She went to Planned Parenthood. We went to Planned Parenthood."

"For what?" Charlie asks Edward, avoiding me.

Lowly, Smirks replies, "For an abortion."

Dad finally looks at me, but I wish he hadn't. "Has there not been enough death?"

Esme sighs. "Charlie, that's not fair."

I speak up for myself. "I couldn't do it. I got scared."

"Obviously," Charlie remarks.

A brief tense quietness passes between our group, but Edward finally goes on. "We went to the hospital because Sail was bleeding. Everything's fine, but they gave us some ultrasounds."

As I pull the images out of the back pocket of my shorts, Charlie comes undone.

"You were bleeding and went to the hospital?" he questions irately. I swear I can see his heart beating through his chest. I could probably hear it if I listen hard enough. I watch his lips move between his mustache and beard, while I'm defeated, stuck in place.

I am not his little girl anymore.

"If something was wrong," he starts, "don't you think I should have known, Bella? I'm kind of fucked-up, but I'm still your father." Charlie stops, too angry to speak any longer—too disgusted to give me a minute more of his attention.

I set the photos of Smudge on the table.

Esme reaches for them when no one else does. Carefully unfolding the delicate paper, she sees her grandchild for the first time. Resting her forehead in the palm of her hand, holding the images in the other, her red-brown hair curtains half of her face, falling in large waves over her shoulder.

"This is really happening," she whispers unhappily.

With his arms crossed over his chest, Carlisle glances down at the ultrasounds before walking away, exiting the house though the back door.

The only mother I know slides the images of my problem back toward me. "I don't know what to say," she explains. Our eyes meet. "Have you thought about—" Esme holds her hands up, yielding. "Never mind. We're not doing this now."

Having said all she has the energy to say, Edward's mom pushes her chair back, stands, and disappears down the hall.

"Let's go," Charlie orders, grabbing his skateboard from where it lies against the wall. He walks out the front door; I don't hear four wheels hit cement, but I hear disappointed clearly. "Now, Bella."

I slap pitiable tears from my face. "I'll see you later," I mumble to the traitor, wanting to both cling and run from the father of my mistake.

He grabs the back of my shirt, pulling me down onto his lap. Edward's arms come around my stomach; his chin rests on my shoulder. His betraying lips are at my ear. "Are you okay?" he asks, caringly.

Like he even cares.

"I'm fine," I lie. I try to stand, but Baby Daddy holds me tighter.

His mouth presses into the side of my neck, and then he whispers, "You look pretty when you cry."

"I have to go," I say. "Charlie's probably waiting for me."

"Charlie's probably packing a bowl, Sail," he replies. "Just stay."

This boy must think I'm stupid. He has another thing coming if he feels he can deny me in public but keep me in private. He's never been able to take advantage of me before, why would he think he can start now? Why does he want to? I don't need him.

_You look pretty when you cry. _When did Smirks turn into such a pussy, anyway?

I don't look pretty when I cry. I look red and blotchy, and I sniffle a lot; my nostrils flare a little, and my chin does this quivering wrinkle things that is far from beautiful.

Edward is full of shit.

I tickle my fingers up the arm he has hooked around our child. He kisses the soft spot behind my ear. I lift his hand to my lips, like I might kiss him, too.

But I don't.

I bite him. Hard.

Thin hand bones bend under my teeth and veins move under pressure. Edward shoves me off his lap, groaning in pain, but I keep clenching.

"Let go!" he yells, trying to push my head back with the ball of his hand on my forehead.

I bite harder.

"Please!" Smirks finally shrieks.

He shrieks. Like a girl.

Fuck him.

I didn't make him bleed, but my teeth broke skin.

Fuck his skin.

"What the hell?" he asks, shaking his wounded claw. Devil.

I push him. "I'm not your whore, Edward."

His dark eyes darken incredibly darker. "What?" he questions harshly.

Face to chest with my best friend, I lift on my tippy toes so he's not so much taller than me. I'm not afraid of him. I'm not some unfortunate one. I'm awesome. I do cool shit all of the time, and I can spit like a boy.

I don't look pretty when I cry.

"You don't get to treat me like this," I bawl, pointing my finger in his face. "I'm not some weak girl. You know me, Edward." I reach up and grip onto his ears.

He cries out in pain.

"How dare you!" I shout. Then I scream in his face like an insane person.

When I go, I run. Some jerk is riding his bike on the sidewalk and almost hits me. He has to swerve onto the road to avoid a collision with my body. The rider doesn't fall off, but he wobbles like an idiot. I even giggle a little. The douche bag his wearing hot pink knockoff sunglasses and turquoise shorts.

"Stay off the sidewalk, asshole!" I scream.

"Sail," Edward calls me from outside his front door.

I flip off the bike rider and start running from the dickwad who got me pregnant.

He catches me.

"You know," I yell, turning in his arms. "I don't need you to act like you love me or something."

Smirks shakes me playfully. "Calm down, hormones."

I start crying. "I can take care of myself. You're not even good enough to be my boyfriend," I say matter of factly.

The smirk falls from his lips. "I can take care of you."

I scoff. "You can't buy diapers with Tootsie Rolls, candy boy."

Breaking free from Edward's arms, I don't run. "You can't do anything for me," I accuse. "Maybe I don't even want this kid. We should put it up for adoption. Then you can stay with Dani."

Edward drags his fingertips down his face, groaning in frustration. "What are you talking about?"

"Candy Boy. Candy Boy. Candy Boy!" I screech, knowing he hates it. "Must suck to be the candy kid."

"Is this about what I told my parents? That we're not together?" he asks, ignoring my taunts.

"No. I don't care," I fib.

He breathes out through his nose before saying, "I don't want to be with Dani, Bella."

_Oh._ I shut up.

"But I kind of owe her a conversation, don't you think? This isn't only happening to you." He looks at me curtly, as if he dares me to disagree with him. "I want to do this with you, Sail, but…" he trails off.

I hold my hand up. "We don't have to be together. We shouldn't force it. And, I don't know, maybe we should think about other options."

Edward's nodding his head, looking over my shoulder. "Yeah, you're probably right," he agrees firmly.

My chin quiver-wrinkles. "It'll be easier."

His eyes meet mine. "Whatever you want, Sail."

He walks away, and I don't stop him.

But I am stopped inhim my tracks when I turn and see Remington standing on my front porch.

Hesitating for only a moment, I take a deep breath and put on a brave face. I knew this was coming; I may as well get all the heartbreaking done in one day.

"Is it true?" he asks when I reach my yard. Remy takes the steps down, meeting me where I stand. "It's not, right?"

"I'm sorry," I whisper.

Remington smiles, but it's sad. His eyes fill with tears. "I didn't even know we weren't together," he says.

I don't offend him with a reply.

"Are you keeping it?" he asks, like it would even make a difference for us. We're over.

I nod my head. "Yes."

Just then, before anymore words can pass between me and the boy who used to own my heart, my father steps outside.

"Get in here, Bella," he calls.

Seeking sympathy, I glance toward my father pleadingly. "Can I have a minute, Dad?"

His answer is swift. "No."

Remington runs his hand through his hair. He looks up toward my pops before staring at me. "It's cool." He shoves his hands in his pockets. "We're done."

I don't bother watching him walk away. The last thing ex-boyfriend needs is pity. He's too wonderful for that.

"You know you're grounded, right?" Charlie asks as I walk up the porch.

I sneer. "For what?"

He's pulled his hair free from its ponytail. And Edward was right; he smoked a bowl. With bloodshot eyes, my dad answers, "For being seventeen and pregnant. No TV. No phone. No James. No Edward."

"You can't ground me for being pregnant, Dad," I say.

"I can," he clarifies. "And I have. You're fucking grounded."

"For how long?" I question, ready to lose my mind.

"Always," he answers. "Your grounded at least until you turn eighteen." Dad kind of stumbles into the house. Charlie murmurs something about being hungry. "Rolling in her grave," I hear him slur before saying, "Left over Chinese food."

Before I follow the best man in my life into the house, I look three doors down. Edward's still outside, looking at me. A slight smile curves the right side of my face. Smirks lifts his hand and waves. I blow him a kiss.

Best friends forever.


End file.
